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32  V/IST  MAIN  STRUT 

V/IBSTIR,  N.Y.  14380 

(716)  %T>..»>iVi 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  at  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


D 
D 
D 
D 

□ 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculde 


□    Cover  title  missing/ 
Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


D 


Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reti6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
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II  se  peu'  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
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pas  6t6  filmies. 

Additional  comments:/ 
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I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
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Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piqudes 

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Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  inigale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
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I — I  Pages  damaged/ 

I — I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

I — I  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I  Pages  detached/ 

I      I  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


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Seule  Edition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
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Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
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obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  Z2X 


/ 


12X 


16X 


20X 


26X 


30X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Dana  Porter  Arts  Library 
University  of  Waterloo 


L'exemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6ndrosit6  de: 

Dana  Porter  Arts  Library 
University  of  Waterloo 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
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Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  or. 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimis  sont  rilm^s  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ►  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  ie 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  film^  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

V 


-:/'' 


^^^^^^^m^^"^ 


"  Life  is  Jo\\  and  lore  is  p(nuer, 

Death  all  fetters  doth  uiihind ; 
Strength  and  wisdom  only  flo7uer 
When  we  toil  for  all  our  kindr 

James  Russkli.  Lowell. 


(i  <- 


THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA," 


llhii)  ©tfjcr  Camfarftisc  Contributions. 


IN'    AID    OF 


The    Hospital    Fund. 


See  wliai  they  be;  read  them." 

.SlIAKKSPKAKE. 


^r 


CAMnRIDGE: 

JOHN     WILSON    AXn     SOX, 

2lnibrr3tt0  IJrcss. 

1881. 


property  o«  «*  ^^'f* 


Copyright,  ISSl, 
13Y  Helen  L.  Reed. 


I'REFACn. 


pOR  the  welfare  of  every  community  certain 
institutions   are   needed,   prominent   anion- 
wluch  are  scliools  and  religious  societies.     Tliere 
's  another  institution  whose  necessity  is  not  per- 
liaps  as  widely  recognized,  yet  whose  mission  is  of 
great   importance.      This   is   the   hospital,  an   out- 
come  of  Christianity  ;    for  thot,nh  we  do  not  ex- 
actly know  in   what   way  the   ancients    cared    for 
thcr  s.ck   poor,   the   probability  is   that   the  work 
was   done   by  individual   Good  Samaritans.     The 
hospital,  as    known    to   us  of   modern    times    un- 
'''■"I't-^Hy   had    its   origin    among    the   Mediaeval 
>»onks,  who,  whatever  their  faults,  certainly  showed 
a  pra^eworthy  spirit  of  kindness  toward  the  poor 
and  afflicted. 


f 


PREFACE. 


Sickness  and  pain,  bard  enough  to  be  borne  by 
any,  arc  aggravated  a  thousand  times  in  the  abodes 
of  poverty  ;  and  it  is  a  cause  for  thankfuhiess  that 
science  and  philanthropy  have  pointed  out  a  way 
whereby  we  may  do  something  to  ease  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  unfortunate.  Since  the  hospital,  then, 
is  an  institution  so  needed  in  every  large  com- 
munity, it  is  strange  that  Cambridge  as  yet  has  not 
one.  For  while  the  general  prosperity  of  Cam- 
bridge is  evident  and  acknowledged,  her  citizens 
cannot  claim  immunity  from  disease  or  poverty. 

Painful  accidents  have  occurred,  will  occur, 
among  the  many  employed  in  her  various  indus- 
tries ;  yet,  no  matter  what  the  injury,  the  patient, 
if  poor,  must  suffer  much  at  home  from  inadequate 
care  and  the  general  discomfort  of  his  surround- 
ings. That  Cambridge  has  no  hospital  must  not  be 
ascribed  wholly  to  indifference  on  the  part  of  her 
citizens.  Doubtless  many  have  thought  that  the 
Massachusetts  General  Hospital  is  able  to  answer 
all  requirements  made  upon  it  by  Cambridge  pa- 
tients. The  facts,  however,  are  otherwise.  The 
Massachusetts    General    Hospital    is    always  full. 


1 


PKEi'.trr.. 


Demands  arc  constantly  made  .,,>„„  it  l.v  c.nntry 
t'»vns:  an<l  it  seems  mifair  that  Cam!>ri.|..v  s„ 
»-n  able  to  take  eare  .,f  l,er  .,wn.  shotdd  2m  to 
tlie  perplexities  of  its  majia-ers. 

The  nee.l  of  a  Cambridge   h,.spital,  nou' obvious 
to  all,  was  seen,  years  a,:;o  hy  the  few,-,amo„^  then, 
M,ss  I.:mily  IC.  l',,rs„„s,  the   history  of  whose  work 
I-  too  well   known  to  require  much  mention  here 
'lavms  .-iven  her  time  and  stren,;;lh  to  the  service 
"f  the  woimde.l  durin,:;  our  late  War,  on  Iier  return 
she  was  not  willin,^  to  sit  idle  when   there  was  so 
"inch  to  be  <lone  for  the  poor  and  afHietcd  at  home 
Tlirou,,d,  l,er  efforts,  a  suitable  house  was  hired  in 
Can,br„lj;eport,  an.l  in  the  spring  of   ..sr,;,  f„r  „„ 
first  fmc  in  its  history,  Cambrhl.^e  had  a  hospital 
I'or  various  reasons  it  u-,as  closed  at  the  end  of  one 
year,  but  rcopeno.l  in  another  location  in  Decend.or 
J«69,  an.l  continual   its  good  work  lor  two  years' 
■""'-e-.     During  its  brief  existence  the  nee.l  of  a  per- 
manent  general  hospital  in  Cambridge  was  elearlv 
clemonstrated,  and  it  was  with   regret  on   the  par't 
o   all  who  h,ad  watched  its  work  that   it  was  hnally 
closed,     ^-et  it,  ,,„,k  had  been  carried  on  under 


PREFACE. 


disadvantages;  tlic  building  was  not  all  that  could 
have  been  desired.  With  the  limited  means  ob- 
tainable for  uses  of  the  hospital,  it  was  impossible 
f(jr  Miss  Paisons  to  procure  nurses  who  could  effi- 
ciently aid  her.  Kind  friends  had  hel[K'd  her  with 
their  money  and  symi)athy,  yet  all  felt  that  the 
hosj)ital  could  only  be  thoroughly  satisfactory  when 
established  in  a  building  of  its  own,  with  invested 
funds  sufficient  to  meet  running  expenses. 

In  1871,  an  act  of  incorporation  was  o1)tained 
from  the  Legislature,  the  hospital  having  been  pre- 
viously placed  in  the  hands  of  trustees  ;  and  to  the 
work  of  enlisting  friends  in  the  cause,  Miss  Par- 
sons devoted  the  remaining  years  of  her  life.  Her 
success  will  be  understood  from  the  statement  that 
chiefly  through  her  efforts  there  is  now  accumu- 
lated eighteen  thousand  dollars  (:ri  18,000),  the  nu- 


cleus of  a  Cambridge  Mospital  Fund.  After  the 
death  of  Miss  Parsons,  in  1880,  her  friends  felt  an 
increased  responsibility  with  regard  to  the  further- 
ance of  her  desire;  and  sad  cases  of  sickness  and 
want,  seen  on  every  hand,  impelled  them  to  take  at 


seen 
once  some 


i 


decided  action. 


PA'F.F.IC/-:. 


7 


A  call  was  therefore  made  iqion  all  parts  of 
Canihricl-e  to  unite  in  workin-  for  a  I-'air.  to  be 
lield  in  the  autumn  of  iS8i.  The  readiness  with 
which  this  call  has  been  answered  shows  that  at 
last,  and  none  too  soon,  people  are  alive  to  the 
necessity  of  establishing  a  Cambridge  Hospital. 
In   Miss  Parsons's  own   words, 

"This  is  a  -ood  wr)rk  tliit  has  come  upon  us,— car- 
ing for  the  sick  and  .  sablcd,  h-^pui^  'those  we  shall 
have  with  us  forever,'  hclpin-  them  not  r.uly  iu  the  bodv, 
l)ut  sometiiues  also  recei^  :n,- the  great  privilege  of  help- 
ing them  in  a  higher  uay,  aiv<  one  that  will  be  a  heli)  to 
thru)  in  the  great  future  that  is  coming  to  us  all." 

With  the  hope  of  materially  ir.creasing  the  Hos- 
pital Fund,  this  little  book  has  been  arranged;  it 
i-s  hoped,  also,  that  it  will  be  an  acceptable  souvc'ni. 
of  our  pleasant  city,  since  those  who  have  kindly 
written  for  it  are  all  closely  identified  with  Cam- 
l>ndge.  I<:verything  has  been  expressly  contributed 
to  this  book.  With  one  slight  e.vception.  whose  ex- 
planation will  be  found  on  page  1,9,  nothing  has 
before  appeared  in  print. 

The  book  having  been  prepared  within  a  limited 


tT*" 


8 


PREFACE. 


time,  at  the  season  when  people  are  scattered  far 
and  wide,  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  contributions 
from  all  thj  Cambridij:e  writers  whose  interest  in 
the  object  would  have  led  them  to  contribute. 

The  sincere  thanks  of  the  ladies  concerned  in 
increasing  the  Cambridge  Hospital  Fund  is  here 
given  to  those  who  have  contributed  to  this  book  ; 
and  especially  would  the  editor  thank  them  for  the 
uniform    courtesy  and   interest   with    which    they 

have  assisted  her  in  her  work. 

H.  L.  R. 
Cambridge,  October,  i88r. 


n 


^ 

•=>> 

4 


.? 


COiXTENTS. 


TmF,  CtV  AXn  T„F,  S,.A  ...//.  „,,  z„„^,.//„,,. 
A  CAM„Rn,f;r.  Kob.nson  Crusoe  .     .  John  IMmc... 

Il  Gexovese  .     .  T-        ■   ^ 

^rafias  J.  ChilcL 

Frexch  Radical  Eloquknt  k        t  ir  ir     • 
K»>.M-  I.:,.ua,„.:t„  l.AKSONS  .     .     .   Saran  S.  J,„o/.. 
Mv  First  1.-r,k.nd  ..v  Can.rrmk..:  .    ;;•.  /;.  y/,„,,;/,, 

Tahiti  FA      .     .  ,,,  ^, 

^S/.///,7/  //'.  Driver. 

A   STUDV  I.V  THR   HISTORV  OP  CAMMiuno..: 

^l  Icxattdcr  McKenzie. 

TlIK    WlIIITooKWILL       .  ,,../ 

The  Oij)  Nurse     .  ,,,  ,  ,      „ 

•     •     •     V    •      I'letchcr  Hates. 

Historic  HosriTAUTY      .  ,1.,,      ,^., 

'     •     •     .   Arthur  Gih/ian. 


(I 
13 

55 
71 

73 

79 

«5 

99 
103 

III 

113 


I    I 

i  i 


lO 


CONTEXTS. 


I' AGE 


The  Heritage  of  Sufferers      Charlotte  F.  Bates.  117 

Rex's  Vacation Anne  IV.  Abbott.  119 

PuELLA  Rom  ANA J.  B.  G.  185 

To  William  Cullen  Bryant  .  Mrs.  Chas.  Folso?n.  187 

The  Lesson  of  a  Song H.  L.  R.  191 


n 


si 


TUIi  CITY  A.N'D  THE  SEA. 


T 


HE  pantinn^  City  cried  to  the  Sea, 
"  I  am  faint  with  heat,  — O  breathe  on  me  !  " 

And  the  Sea  said,  "  Lo,  I  breatlie  !  hut  mv  brcatli 
To  some  will  be  h'fe,  to  others  death!  " 

As  to  Prometheus,  brinj^ing  ease 
In  pain,  came  tJie  Oceanides, — 

So  to  the  City,  hot  witli  the  flame 

Of  tiie  pitiless  sun,  the  east  wind  came. 

It  came  from  the  heavin-  breast  of  the  deep. 
Silent  as  dreams  are,  and  sudden  as  sleep. 

Life-iving,  death-giving,  which  will  it  be,  - 
O  breath  of  the  merciful,  merciless  Sea  ? ' 

Hi  NKV    W.    LOXGFKLLOW. 


f^' 


w 


i    III 


1 

* 


A  CAM15RlDGn  ROBIXSOX  CRUSOIi. 


\T  7E  will  suppose  a  boy,  born  in  Cambridge 
and  a  steady  attendant  at  the  old  Parish 
j\Icct'uuis  (as  it  was  commonly  pronounced),  to  have 
been  wrecked  on  his  first  venture  to  sea  in  the 
year  1820;  to  have  lived  a  Robinson  Crusoe  life 
till  about'  the  present  time,  when  he  has  been 
found  by  a  venerable  navigator,  his  companion  in 
boyhood  and  fellow-attendant  at  the  Parish  Church, 
and  who  is  conversant  with  the  town  and  its  changes 
to  the  present  time. 

In  so  long  a  term  of  silent  self-comj)anionship  it 
would  be  our  friend's  melancholy  recreation  to  recall 
the  picture  of  his  old  home,  and  of  his  neighbors 
young  and  old,  in  the  then  little  more  than  village 


TT-rr 


14 


y1   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


of  Cambridge.  Seeming  like  part  of  another  world 
and  another  state  of  being,  it  would,  by  long  con- 
templation, become  fixed  in  his  mind  as  something 
with  which  time  and  cham;e  had  nothinii-  to  do. 
Himself  living  in  perennial  vigor,  his  days  silently 
coming  and  going  like  the  tides  cf  the  sea  about 
him,  why  should  he  dream  of  distant  innovation  or 
decay  ?  *  No  !  doubtless  to  his  last  Sunday  revery 
on  the  island,  the  old  meeting-house  and  its  fre- 
quenters appear  before  him  as  he  saw  tliem  last. 
Judge  Winlhrop  still  hangs  his  cocked  hat  on  its 
brass-headed  nail  in  the  south  wall  ;  Mr.  Stacey 
Read  goes  to  his  accustomed  pew  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door;  and  he  seems  faintly  to  hear  the 
rumble  of  Mr.  William  Ikites's  bass-viol  as  he 
sets  the  pitch  for  the  psalm.  As  he  advances 
along  the  uncarpeted  aisle  in  his  creaking  Sunday 
shoes,  he  is  conscious  of  trying  to  look  as  if  they 
made  no  noise.  1  le  set:s  the  sexton  peeping 
through  his  little  window  in  the  tower  of  the 
church  to  see  if  the  minister  has  arrived,  that  he 
may  cease  to  toll  the  bell.  No  intervening  time 
has  changed   this  perishable  picture   to  his   view. 


•% 


1 


■.*1 


■  vl; 


W'c  all  know  how  hard  it  is  to  keep  in  due  pro- 
j^rcssion  (or  rctro<;rcssio:i)  the  buclL;et  of  facts 
which  each  carries  in  his  memory.  An  amicable 
pjrson  is  about  to  send  a  present  of  sui^ar-i^lums 
to  the  friend's  child  of  whose  birth  he  heard,  it 
seems  to  him,  a  year  or  so  since.  Askini;-  one  or 
two  {)re]iminary  questions  he  finds  that  the  young- 
ster is  mining  in  California,  or  lierding  on  the 
plains,  or  possibly  that  he  is  a  settled  minister, 
with  a  boy  that  exactly  fits  the  intended  gift.  We 
meet  a  valued  contemporary  whom  we  ha\'c  not 
seen  for  fortv  years.  He  appears  his  exact  former 
self.  "  My  dear  Codlin,"  we  exclaim.  "  Ves,  sir  ;  I 
am  a  son  of  }'our  old  friend,"  is  the  reply.  We  greet 
him  cordially,  and  omit  to  tell  him  that  we  took 
him  for  a  well  preserved  youth  of  sixty  or  sixty- 
five  summers.  We  e\en  occasionally  find  persons 
who  fail  to  keep  u[)  with  their  own  ad\-ance  in  life, 
and  remain  ever  anchored  on  the  shores  of  time, 
in,  say,  thirty  to  forty-five  fathom. 


W 


e  rii\ist  allow  the  two  friends  a  brief  interval, 


to  be 


come  wonted  to  the  situatio 


n. 


A 


member  o 


f 


the  First  Parish,  who  has  resided  fifty  years  alone 


!  f 


i6 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


in  a  very  remote  degree  of  longitude,  is  not  to  be 
approached  exactly  as  a  friend  whom  you  met 
yesterday.  He  must  be  allowed  a  certain  amount 
of  hysteric  agitation  at  the  prospect  of  rescue,  and 
to  make  the  first  enquiries  after  parents  and  house- 
hold. His  jaws,  opened  for  so  long  a  time  only  to 
give  entrance  to  his  primitive  diet,  or  for  brief 
soliloquy,  or  for  attempts  at  dialogue  with  beasts 
and  birds  in  their  own  language,  need  some  prac- 
tice to  meet  the  demands  of  conversation.  His 
tones  of  voice,  unregulated  by  any  standard,  range 
from  the  sea-cow  to  the  parrot.  He  gives  vent 
to  any  excess  of  joy  in  a  variety  of  capers  which 
show  that  he  retains  the  activity  as  well  as  the 
simplicity  of  the  boy  of  thirteen.  These  circum- 
stances make  the  first  meeting  with  his  deliverer 
rather  miscellaneous.  A  little  practice  in  talking 
with  the  Captain,  however,  has  brought  him  round 
so  that  they  are  quite  well  prepared  for  such  con- 
versation as  they  are  like  to  enter  on.  The  Cap- 
tain is  a  great  custodian  of  old  reminiscences,  and 
he  regards  his  new-found  friend  somewhat  as  he 
would  a  map  of  Cambridge  that  had  lain  rolled  up 


A   CAMHRinCE   ROBISSOX  CRUSOE. 


17 


'g 


P- 


up 


for  fifty  years.  He  means  to  examine  him  to  a 
certain  extent,  without  disturbing  his  evident  im- 
pression that  his  old  town  remains  quite  the  same 
to-day  as  when  he  left  it  in  1820. 

The  third  day  after  arrival  (the  ship  being  de- 
tained by  various  causes)  our  friend  having  settled 
down  into  comparative  quiet  and,  as  the  Captain 
said,  got  his  talking  tackle  on,  they  both  after 
breakfast  lay  down  under  a  cocoa-nut  tree  for  a 
free  talk. 

"  Well  now,  Captain,"  said  our  friend,  "  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  all  about  Old  Cambridge." 

"  That 's  right,  Royal,"  said  the  Caj^tain  (for  such 
is  our  friend's  name),  "  but  suppose  you  should 
give  me  some  idee  first  how  well  you  remember 
it.  Have  you  kept  the  run  of  the  time  since  you  've 
been  here? " 

"Not  much,"  said  our  friend  ;  "I  guess  I  was 
considerable  distracted  when  I  was  first  bumped 
ashore  here  all  alone.  I  suppose  I  must  have  been 
here  fifteen  or  twenty  years." 

The  Captain  saw  that  his  friend  had  kept  his 
boy   estimate    of    time,   and    that    he    considered 


\r 


i8 


A    CAMIIRIDCE  ROBIXSON  CRUSOE. 


twenty  years  as  much  as  mortal  vLsion  could  con- 
template at  one  time.  He  smiled,  thinking  how 
he  had  considered  himself  far  advanced  in  years 
at  forty,  and  was  now  disposed  to  look  at  seventy 
as  very  near  the  prime  of  life. 

"Well,  Royal,"  said  he,  "we  will  find  out  by 
and  by  how  old  you  are.  Now  give  me  your  idee 
of  our  old  town." 

"Where  shall  I  begin  }  " 

"  Well,  —  back  of  the  colleges  is  as  good  as 
anywhere." 

"  Oh,  back  of  Holworthy,"  said  our  friend. 

"  I  see  you  remember  the  names,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Yes,  there  's  four  colleges,  and  then  there 's 
Harvard  and  Holden  Chapel,  and  University 
Chapel  besides.  That 's  all  of  white  stone.  That 's 
about  the  finest  building  in  the  State,  I  suppose, 
next  to  the  State  •  House.  Then  back  of  Hol- 
worthy is  the  College  playground  [Delta],  and  at 
the  east  end  of  that  is  the  Swamp  —  the  Huckle- 
berry Swamp.  Craigie's  road  is  one  side  of  the 
playground  [Cambridge  Street]  ;  there's  one  house 


n 


A    CAMHRIDCE   ROIUXSOX  CRUSOE. 


19 


C 


on  that  about  half  a  mile  down,  and  I  don't  know 
as  there's  any  other  between  that  and  the  Pint 
[Lechmere's  Point,  P^ast  Cambridge].  Then,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  playground  is  the  old  Charles- 
town  road  [Kirkland  Street];  there's  one  old 
black  house  down  there,  an  old  Foxcroft  house,  I 
believe  [not  far  from  the  head  of  Oxford  Street]  ; 
then  come  up  along,  there's  a  piece  t)f  land  that 
the  College  owns  ;  there  's  a  barn  on  that  [near 
the  site  of  the  Scientific  School].  Then,  going 
along  toward  the  West  Cambridge  road  [North 
Avenue],  there's  a  little  three-cornered  piece  of 
Common,  where  the  Light-horse  always  comes  up 
at  Commencement  time.  Oh,  ain't  that  a  hand- 
some sight,  Captain  }  Well,  up  there  in  the  corner 
is  the  minister's  house  (I  hope  I  shall  hear  him 
preach  in  the  old  meeting-house  before  six  months 
is  over),  and  there  's  Mr.  Royal  Morse's  and  Mr. 
Gannett's,  —  Jic  died  before  I  come  away.  1  sup- 
pose his  widder  lives  there  now.  Then  you  come 
to  the  corner  [Mrs.  leaker's.  North  Avenue],  and 
there  's  a  little  pasture-lot  with  a  yellow  barn  on 
it.     They  always  have  a  dancing-tent  there  Com- 


iir»*""»" 


20 


A    CAMIiRlDCE   RO  BIX  SON  CRUSOE. 


mencemcnts.  (Oh,  Captain,  if  wc  could  only  get 
home  time  for  Commencement.  There  must  be 
more  tents  now  than  there  was  when  I  come 
away  !)  Well,  up  the  road  [North  Avenue]  there  's 
about  a  dozen  houses,  say,  on  each  side  till  you 
get  to  Davenport's  tavern  [near  Porter's].  I  sup- 
pose Davenport  does  a  great  business  now  with 
the  country  pungs  that  come  down  in  the  winter." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  houses,  Royal,  along 
the  road  pretty  well  ?  "  asked  the  Captain. 

•'  Why,  no,  I  don't ;  but  about  a  third  of  'em 
was  little  black  story  and  a  half  houses,  with  gam- 
brel  roofs." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Captain,  '-'•  and  them  houses,  in 
my  opinion,  saw  the  row  that  was  going  on  the 
19th  of  April,  '75." 

•'  What  ^s  a  row  }  "  asked  our  friend. 

"  Why,  it 's  a  kind  of  shindy,"  said  the  Captain. 

"What's  a  shindy?" 

"  It's  a  disturbance,  a  tumult  like,  where  there  's 
more  kicks  than  coppers.  Why,  Royal,  you  /lavc 
got   pooty   green   staying  here    so   long,   have  n't 


you 


»» 


//   C  AMUR  IDC,  E  ROBIN  SOX  CRUSOE. 


21 


S 

j't 


'•  I  've  ^^ot  tanned,  I  suppose,"  said  Royal,  inno- 
cently. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  Captain,  "so  you  have  — 
f;ot  tanned,  that's  it  —  yes;"  and  he  resolved  not 
to  use  any  more  \v  )rds  at  present  that  were  not  in 
vogue  in  the  j^riniitive  time  of  his  youth.  "  Xow," 
said  the  Captain,  "  suppose  you  should  begin  at 
the  southeast  corner  of  the  burying-ground,  pretty 
near  opposite  to  Harvard." 

"  Well,"  said  Royal,  "  first,  there's  Mr.  Reemie, 
in  a  small,  squarish  sort  of  house ;  and  then  there  's 
Captain  Stimson  (he  takes  care  of  the  College 
wood-yard)  in  the  old  black-looking  house  with  the 
gable  end  to  the  street  [both  these  houses  where 
the  church  of  the  First  Parish  now  stands]  ;  then 
there  's  the  passage  into  the  wood-yard  [now  carried 
through  and  made  Church  Street]  ;  then  there  's  the 
Den,  and  that's  the  first  College  house,  —  Wis- 
wall's  wife  died  there.  Captain,  do  you  believe 
that  it  was  the  Devil  that  scratched  Mrs.  Wiswall 
so?" 

"Couldn't  say,  Royal;  it's  jes  like  him  if  he 
got  the  chance." 


tsMmmmammait 


■'|lli| 


oo 


A   CAMBRIDGE  KOBINSOX  CRUSOE. 


"  But  on  a  Sunday  !  "  said  Royal. 

"  Why,  you  know  that  would  n't  be  no  objection 
to  /lim,  Royal  ;  and  then  you  know  the  folks  was 
all  gone  to  meeting.  If  she  'd  only  had  her  l^ible 
in  her  hand  —  they  say  t/iat  is  a  pertection  ;  but 
I  am  afraid  the  poor  woman  did  n't  have  much  to 
do  with  the  Good  Book,  but  it  don't  concern  us. 
Royal,  so  long  as  we  go  regular  to  meeting  when 
we  are  ashore,  and  try  to  be  good." 

'*  Good,  scn'oits  Christians,  you  mean,  Captain," 
said  Royal,  who  had  been  very  piously  brought 
up. 

"  Well,  about  the  scrioits,  Royal,  I  don't  want 
folks  to  look  all  the  time  as  if  they  was  flying  sig- 
nals of  distress.  Vou  know  ihey  thought  hard  of 
the  captain  of  the  schooner  that  hove  out  his 
signals  of  distress  because  he  was  short  of  beans, 
—  there  was  n't  sufficient  cause.  Royal.  I  don't 
want  to  have  a  feller  look  as  if  he  had  the  colic 
because  he  is  good.  '  Oil  to  make  his  face  to 
shine,'  —  you'll  find  that  in  Scripter.  Now  if  it 
was  bhirking,  a  feller 'd  have  some  reason  for 
keeping  a  serious  look  on.     But  look  here.  Royal, 


IC 
,0 

it 
i)r 
al, 


you  '11  never  get  down  in  town  at  this  rate.  What 's 
the  next  buildinii  to  the  Den  ?" 

"  It 's  the  College  engine  house,"  said  Royal. 
"  I  s'pose  the  College  engine  goes  to  fires  now  ?  " 

"  It  don't  go  to  any  fires  out  of  Cambridge,"  said 
the  Captain,  still  evasively. 

"  Well,  next  to  that,"  continued  Royal,  "  is  the 
passage-\va^-  that  goes  in  to  the  College  carpenter's 
shop,  and  then  comes  the  second  College  house 
[Huntington's  shop  occu|)ies  a  part  of  the  ground]  ; 
the  Law  School  is  there,  and  Professor  Stearns's 
office.  I  suppose  there  must  be  as  much  as  forty 
law  students  by  this  time." 

"  There  's  as  many  as  that,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Then,"  resumed  Royal,  "from  there  to  the 
Court  House  [Lyceum]  is  an  open  field." 

"  Xow  cross  ()ver  to  the  corner,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"Oh,  to  Miss  [Mrs.]  Farwell's  shop  [corner  of 
Brighton  Street  antl  Harvard  Scjuare].  What  a 
business  they  do  do  there;  she's  worth  as  much 
as  ten  thou.sand  dollars.  Does  Prudence  Board- 
man   tend    there  now }     She 's   pooty,  ain't    she  ? 


24 


A   C A 'if BRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


■i'l" 


She's  just  like  those  little  handkerchiefs  with  a 
pink  border  that  they  sell  there.  The  next  build- 
in*^  is  Mr.  Stacey  Read's  —  ^le  is  the  postmaster. 
I  should  be  glad  enough  to  pay  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar  for  a  letter,  if  I  had  it,  for  the  sake  of  going 
to  the  old  post-office  again." 

"They  did  use  to  charge  twenty-five  cents  for 
a  letter  from  a  distance,  did  n't  they  "^ "  said  the 
Captain. 

"Why,  don't  they  now?"  said  our  friend  in 
alarm,  for  the  least  idea  of  innovation  on  the 
status  in  quo  was  a  pang  to  him. 

"Oh,  they  make  a  little  discount  nowadays,"  said 
the  Captain,  and  Royal  resumed  :  — 

"  Next  to  the  post-office  comes  the  tavern,  and 
it's  a  real  dear  place,  is  n't  it .''  They  charge  six 
cents  a  glass,  and  it 's  only  three  at  the  stores  ; 
they  keep  soda,  too,  and  that 's  six  cents  a  glass. 
I  never  tasted  any,  but  I  have  seen  'em  in  at  the 
winder  a  drawin'  of  it.  You  've  seen  the  soda 
fountain  .^ " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  go  in  there,"  said  Royal, 


A    CAMBRIDGE   RO  BIX  SOS  CRUSOE. 


25 


*•'  and  see  Captain  Stedman  and  Royal  Morse,  and 
Morse  that  drives  the  stage,  and  ^Vtwell,  and  Squire 
Wood,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  printers  that  board 
there.  I  mean  to  go  to  l^oston  in  the  stage  when 
I  get  home,  if  I  have  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  to  pay 
the  fare.  It 's  a  good  deal,  but  I  want  to  go  in  the 
stage  for  once  in  my  life,  anyhow.  Next  to  the 
tavern  is  Deacon  Brown's  old  shoj).  How  is  the 
Deacon  .'*  but  no  matter  now.  Then  cross  over  to 
the  opposite  corner  [Little's  Block]  ;  Professor 
Hedge  lives  there, — or  I  suppose  he  does,  don't 
he  ? " 

**No,"  said  the  Captain,  "he  moved — some  time 
ago.  Now  go  down  the  street  toward  the  river 
[Dunster  Street],  and  let's  see  how  well  you  re- 
member." 

"Well,"  said  Royal,  "  past  Professor  Hedge's  it 's 
open  to  the  street  —  tJiat's  old  Mr.  King's  garden  ; 
he  was  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point.  Next  to 
his  garden  comes  the  old  black  house  where  he 
lives,  with  the  ro(tf  running  down  near  the  ground 
on  the  back,  —  one  of  the  real  old  houses.  Jacob 
Watson  lives  there,  too  ;  is  n't  Catherine  Watson 


'Wr 


W- 


26 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


a  real  pooty  girl  ?  Then  you  go  four  or  five  rods, 
and  you  come  to  Dr.  Tom  Foster's  house,  with  the 
end  on  the  cross  street  [Mount  Auburn  Street]. 
I  suppose  he  's  got  into  a  good  deal  of  practice 
by  this  time,  has  n't  he  ? " 

"  He  has  retired  from  business,"  said  the  Captain, 
not  wishing  to  say  that  he  was  dead.  "  Now  go 
across  the  street  to  the  opposite  corner." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Gamage  lives  there,  I  suppose  lie's 
alive.  He  and  his  old  yellow  mare 's  about  as 
tough  as  anything  in  Cambridge.  What  a  pair 
they  be.  She  is  rhubarb  color,  and  his  old  surtout 
is  just  the  color  of  ipecac.  Oh  !  don't  he  give  a 
feller  the  stuff  .^  Oh,  Lor!  his  ipecac!  it's  just 
like  letting  a  cat  down  into  a  feller  s  stomach  and 
pulling  her  out  by  the  tail.  I  do  declare,  Captain, 
fur  off  as  I  am,  it  gives  mc  a  sort  of  a  twist  inside 
when  I  think  of  it.  Folks  say  you  'd  ought  to  take 
a  'metic  at  least  once  a  year.  I  should  have  a  lot 
to  make  up,  should  n't  I,  Captain .'  " 

"  Well,  if  you  like  it,"  said  the  Captain,  ''but  the 
doctors  don't  keep  their  own  stuff  now.  You  '11 
have  to  go  to  an  apothecary." 


^ 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROIU.XSO.W  CRUSOE. 


or  is  it  Tuesday?)  old  Leonard  Hunnewell  marks 
out  the  places  for  the  tents,  just  as  solemn  as  if 
they  was  so  many  graves,  and  the  boys  always 
make  it  out  that  there  's  agoing  to  be  more  tents 
than  ever  there  'vas  before.  Then  Tuesday  after- 
noon the  jice  [joists]  and  boards  and  old  sails  come, 
and  they  begin  to  build  the  tents,  and  they  keep 
on  working  at  'em  in  the  night  ;  and  the  boys 
when  they  go  to  bed  know  that  the  work  is  going 
on,  and  perhaps  they  wake  up  and  hear  'em  ham- 
mering, and  go  to  sleep  again  and  drear,  of  lots  of 
tencS.  Do  you  think  we  can  get  home  in  time  for 
Commencement,  Captain  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  but 
you  go  ahead  with  your  story.  I  rather  like  to  think 
about  Commencement,  myself." 

"  Well,  Captain,  you  know  when  it  comes  morn- 
ing there 's  the  tents,  the  most  of  'em  on  the 
Common  right  in  front  of  the  colleges,  and  then 
there  's  one  or  two  big  ones  out  in  the  direction  of 
the  Episcopal  Church,  and  one  up  at  the  corner  on 
West  Cambridge  road  [corner  of  North  Avenue 
and    Holmes    Place].     The  lowest   down    tents   is 


A    CAMryRlDGE   RO  BIX  SOX  CRUSO[-:. 


29 


about  opposite  Massachusetts,  and  the  furthest  up 
comes  pretty  near  the  little  three-cornered  Common 
[Flolmes  Place].  Then  from  the  tents  tlown  to 
the  Court  House  [Lyceum]  there's  stands  just 
outside  the  sidewalk,  with  candy  and  toys  and 
every  sort  of  thin^;'.  The  children  's  thick  cnoui^h 
down  there.  I  've  seen  something  there  they  calletl 
ice-cream  —  that  come  from  Boston  I  suppose.  It 
was  dreadful  dear.  I  never  tasted  any,  but  some 
that  did  said  it  was  real  good.  Did  you  ever  taste 
any,  Captain  }  " 

"  Why,  it  is  n't  much  in  my  line.  Royal,  but  I 
have." 

"  Well,"  resumed  Royal,  "  then  the  first  thing 
you  know  there 's  the  Light-horse  comes  with 
their  trumpets,  —  they  come  with  the  governor, — 
and  then  about  nine  o'clock  the  great  procession 
comes  with  music  ;  the  women  has  been  crowding 
in  to  get  seats  in  the  meetinus  beforehand,  and 
when  the  procession  comes  into  the  meetinus  it  's 
just  as  full  as  it  can  hold,  every  corner  of  it.  It's 
almost  as  good  fun  to  be  there  as  to  be  out  on  the 
Common.     Then  down  in  the  market-place  it's  all 


30 


A   CA.l/BAVDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


full  of  carts  with  watermelons  and  peaches,  and 
Ijts  cr  folks  coming  and  goin^;.  Then  at  Captain 
Stimson's  house  [where  the  First  Parish  Church 
stands]  they  let  rooms  for  the  shows,  and  I  see 
Punch  and  Judy  there  once,  and  it  was  the  best 
thing  that  ever  /  did  see.  Well,  Captain,  you 
know  they  keep  it  up  all  day  on  the  Common, 
and  pretty  well  at  night,  and  all  the  next  day  and 
night.  Oh  !  there  can't  be  anything  like  it  any- 
where, I  do  sup])ose.  But  look  here,  Captain  ! 
you'd  like  a  fresh  cocoa-nut  I  know.  This  here 
tree's  come  up  and  growed  since  I  landed,  and 
where  on  earth  the  seed  come  from  I  don't  know." 
The  Captain  was  just  hesitating  between  an  im- 
mense cube  of  tobacco,  his  ordinary  solace,  and 
a  minute  bit  of  flag-root  from  the  Jarvis  meadow, 
which  with  true  village  patriotism  he  affirmctl  to  be 
the  best  flag-root  in  the  known  world,  and  a  sure 
preventive  of  colic  in  all  latitudes.  Before,  there- 
fore, he  could  accept  or  decline,  our  friend  pro- 
ceeded alono:  the  tall  stem  as  if  he  were  on  a 
concrete  sidewalk,  detached  a  cocoa-nut  such  as 
enterprising  boys  occasionally  dream  of,  descended 


1 


\m 


lllili 


iiiii 


32 


A    CAMBRIDGE   ROB  I  \  SON  CRUSOE. 


Lord  forcrive  us  !  I  am  afraid  I  'm  a  stretching:  it 
a  little,  and  I  belong  to  the  Bethel,  too  ;  but 
there  's  something  in  these  low  latitudes  that  makes 
a  fellow  go  bye  and  large  in  his  talk." 

"  What 's  localities  ?  "  said  our  friend. 

"  Why,  it 's  places  ;  they  call  places  localities 
nowadays,  and  they  call  things  local  that 's  in  the 
localities.  The  last  time  I  got  my  hair  cut  ashore, 
the  barber  (he  was  a  purblind  sort  of  a  feller) 
thought  he  sec  a  bald  spot  on  my  head,  and  he 
told  me  of  it.  I  did  n't  say  anything,  but  maybe  I 
squirmed  a  little  in  the  chair.  *  Oh,'  says  he, 
'  Captain,  it 's  only  a  local  baldness.*  '  Well,'  says 
I,  *  if  it 's  only  local,  it  may  stay  there  for  all  me.' 
You  see  he  wanted  to  sell  me  some  of  his  stufT 
that  '11  make  a  head  of  hair  grow  on  the  capstan." 

"  Do  they  have  the  base-ball  in  Cambridge  now  1 " 
inquired  our  friend. 

"  Have  it !  yes,  worse  than  most  anywhere,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  what-d'  ye-call-'ems  —  the  ath- 
letics. Why,  when  I  was  ashore  this  last  time,  I 
used  nights  to  meet  half  a  dozen  young  fellers  in 
a  string  all  running  as  if  the  devil  was  after  'em. 


% 


A    CAMBRIDGE   Kn/ilNSCW  CRL'SOE. 


33 


(There,  now  '  I  never  used  that  word  till  I  was  ever 
so  fur  south  of  the  Line,  —  there's  somethinci:  in 
these  latitudes.)  Well,  when  I  first  met  these 
fellers  I  thought  it  was  fire  or  burglary  or  some- 
thing, and  I  set  out  to  run  too,  but  I  could  n't  do 
much  in  that  line  —  your  shore  grub  makes  a  fel- 
ler too  pussy  for  running.  —  But  now,  Royal,  you 
spoke  about  the  old  meeting-house.  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  remember  the  inside  of  it  very  well  .''  " 

"  Oh,  don't  I  ? "  said  Royal  ;  "  when  we  get  home 
you  just  ask  me  to  carry  you  to  any  of  the  pews 
where  I  know  the  folks.  You  know  there 's  some 
of  'em  comes  from  so  fur  up  West  Cambridge  road 
I  don't  know  'cm  by  name,  though  I  do  by  sight. 
Why,  I  '11  just  start  now  at  the  door  that  looks 
down  the  street,  Dunster  Street.  The  first  right- 
hand  pew,  if  you  go  in  straight  from  Dunster  Street, 
is  Mr.  Mellen's,  —  him  that  used  to  be  the  min- 
ister at  Barnstable.  The  next  is  the  minister's 
pew,  and  then  comes  Judge  Winthrop  ;  he  looks 
just  the  same,  I  guess,  as  he  did  at  Bunker  liill, — 
cocked  hat,  knee-breeches,  and  silver  buckles, — 
only  he  is  pooty  old  now.     Is  he  alive,  Captain  ? " 


7 
•A 


'W\ 


^ 


i     1  ' 

i 


!    ; 


ill 


*lil  ll 


ihi 


m 


VlM'l 


11 


34 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


"  Well,  Royal,  he  is  n't  able  to  go  o\\\.  at  all  now," 
said  the  Captain,  he  having  died  about  the  year 
1822.     "  What 's  the  next  pew  ?  " 

"It's  Mr.  Jacob  Wyeth's,"  said  Royal.  "lie 
keeps  the  tavern  at  Fresh  Pond.  Aiiit  Fresh 
Pond  the  beautifuUest  place  in  the  world,  Captain.-*" 

"  It  is  about  as  pooty  as  anything  I  have  seen  in 
all  my  vyges,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  How  the  yellow  chaises  used  to  go  up  there," 
continued  Royal,  "half  a  dozen  together — Sun- 
days. I  should  a  liked  to  have  been  in  one  of  'em, 
if  it  had  n't  been  on  a  Sundav.  It  was  n't  our 
Cambridge  folks  that  was  a  riding — t/icy  come, 
most  ^?// of  'em,  to  meetin'  regular.  —  But  I  was  at 
the  meetinus.  Well,  you  go  to  the  other  side  of  the 
door,  and  first  there  's  Professor  Hedge's  pew,  and 
next  Professor  Stearns's.  T/uy  come  to  meetin' 
when  it's  College  vacation.  And  then  there's  Mr. 
Stacey  Read's.  Don't  you  thiiii:  I  remember  some- 
thin'  about  it  }  Well  then,  the  first  pew  right- 
hand,  broad  aisle,  —  t/icre's  llie  little  old  man  in  the 
snuff-colored  coat  ;  he 's  got  a  great  clubbed  cue 
that  he  mijiht  knock  a  feller  down  with  if  he  could 


■1^ 


III 


A   CAMBRIDGE  RODINSO.V  CRUSOE. 


35 


hit  him  with  it.  The  pews  in  the  broad  aisle  is  a 
little  mixed  up  in  my  memory,  that 's  a  fact,  Cap- 
tain ;  but  there's  Major  Metcalf,  his  family,  —  {fic 
sings  in  the  choir,  you  know),  — and  Mrs.  McKcan, 
and  Mr.  Prentiss,  and  on  the  left  hand  there's  tlie 
Miss  Howes,  and  Mr.  Jacob  l^ates,  and  Dr.  Water- 
house  ;  he  's  the  man  that  brouc^ht  the  vaccination 
in  first,  ^ — he  and  President  Jefferson  writes  letters 
to  each  other  ;  folks  think  he  's  a  kind  of  Socinian. 
Then  there  's  Captain  Lee,  and  good  old  Deacon 
Walton  in  the  deacon's  pew  at  the  end.  He's 
alive,  I  hope." 

•'  He  was  very  low  the  last  time  I  heard  from 
him,"  said  the  Captain,  determined  not  to  own  to 
any  change  in  the  town  till  he  was  ready,  although 
the  excellent  deacon  had  been  dead  some  fifty  odd 
years. 

"  When  I  get  home,"  said  Royal,  "  I  shall  see  all 
the  folks  together  in  the  old  meetinus  ;  at  least,  the 
families." 

"  Yes,  the  families''  said  the  Captain.  •'  You 
must  expect  some  change." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  our  friend,  still  tenacious  of 


^nrr^ 


^iliii^i 


III 


36 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


the  old  situation,  —  "I  don't  know,  Captain.  I 
haven't  seen  much  change  here,  though,  to  be  sure, 
my  Httle  dog  and  Dr.  FrankHn  and  Miranda  have 
died."  And  here  our  friend  drew  from  the  pocket 
of  the  trousers  that  the  Captain  had  given  him  a 
most  extraordinary  piece  of  manufacture. 

"  Why,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  what 's  that  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  hankerchif  that  I  made  out  of  cocoa- 
nut  bark.  I  thought  I  'd  have  a  hankchif  if  I 
didiit  have  no  trousers.  I  saved  mine  for  Sun- 
days, and  outgrowed  'em  pooty  soon,"  said  Royal, 
suppressing  the  rudimentary  tears  and  smiling 
with  innocent  pride.  "  Don't  you  think  it 's  rather 
pooty  ?  " 

"  Why,  ahem  !  —  yes.  Royal,  very  pooty,  but  I 
should  advise  you  not  to  give  way  to  your  feelings 
very  often,  or  you'll  rub  your  eyes  out  with  it. 
But  you  never  told  me  before  about  the  dog  and 
—  what  was  it  ? —  Dr.  Franklin  .''  —  who  in  the  world 
was  he  ?  " 

"Oh,  he  was  the  pig,"  said  Royal,  "?nd  Miranda 
was  the  parrot.  I  called  her  after  Miranda  Gibson. 
I  used  to  see  /ur  to  meetin',  but  I  never  spoke  to 


./    CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  37 


her."  Here  Royal  colored,  and  in  his  embarrass- 
ment again  produced  the  handkerchief. 

"  Look  here,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  '11  give 
you  one  of  my  bandannas  if  you  want  to  use  a  swab 
so  often.  I  got  a  case  of  'em  at  Singapore  in  the 
year  '28,  when  I  was  chief  mate  of  the  '  I'lying 
Buffalo.'  They  've  carried  me  through  all  my  trials 
up  to  date.  I  've  lost  three  wives.  Royal,"  said  the 
Captain,  solemnly,  "  and  every  one  of  'em  just  the 
best  of  women,  and  I  've  never  used  anything  l)ut 
these  bandannas.  There  's  no  better  material  for 
affliction,  and  when  you're  off  duty  in  that  line, 
there's  nothin'  more  —  well,  I  won't  say  fashionable, 
but  anyhow,  respectable,  than  a  real  bandanna. 
Jkit  you  was  telling  about  the  meetin'-house." 

"  Yes,"  said  Royal ;  "  ain't  it  a  nice  one.  too  }  If 
the  pews  was  all  painted,  and  the  men's  and  boys' 
gallery  too  [the  pojiular  designation  of  two  long 
slips  in  the  u'est  gallery],  it  would  be  real  hand- 
somo.  Then  there  's  such  a  high  pulpit,  and  such 
a  handsome  sounding-board  over  it  ;  and  what  a 
winder  there  is  back  of  the  pulpit !  It 's  shai)ed  like 
the   gravestones  in  the  buryiri^-ground.     I    guess 


i  : 
I 


V 


III 


41F" 


<i:! 


li^ 


3^ 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE 


there's  as  mueh  as  a  hundred  panes  of  glass  in  it, 
ain't  there,  Captain?  I  low  the  winders  an  that 
side  does  rattle  on  a  real  windy  winter's  day  !  Some- 
times you  ean't  hear  a  word  of  what  the  minister 
says.  Can't  we  get  home  to  next  Thanksgiving  in 
the  old  meetinus,  Captain  ? " 

*'  I  should  like  to  do  it  if  it 's  a  possible  thing," 
said  the  Captain. 

"/]///'/  Thanksgiving  a  good  time?"  continued 
Royal.  "  They  make  the  great  stove  in  the  broad 
aisle  pij)! ng  hot,  you  know,  and  you  hear  the  water 
dripping  from  the  funnels  into  the  wooden  boxes 
that's  slung  underneath,  and  the  green  baize  inside 
doors  keep  flip-flopping  with  the  folks  coming  in  ; 
a'most  everybody  comes  to  Thanksgiving,  you 
know,  and  you  seem  to  have  the  whole  town  to- 
gether, just  as  if  it  was  one  family.  A  feller's  feet 
get  pretty  cold,  though,  before  the  service  is 
through,  in  spite  of  the  great  stove.  Then,  after 
the  sermon,  the  deacons  start  to  go  round  with  the 
contribution  bo.xes,  and  they  strike  up  the  anthem 
in  the  singers'  gallery.  How  they  do  chase  one 
another  round  like  with  their  fuging,  as  they  call 


af, 


.•/    CAMBRinCE  KOBIXSOX  CRUSOE. 


39 


it.  First,  Mr.  Nat  Miinroc  and  liis  trebles  start 
off,  and  tlicn  Torry  Hancock  witli  iiis  bass  comes 
athundering  after  'cm,  and  then  Squire  Whipple 
and  Major  Metcalf,  they  come  chasing  after  both 
of  'em,  and  some  stop,  and  some  go  on,  and  they 
seem  sort  of  distracted,  like  folks  running  to  a  lire 
that  ain't  in  sight  ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  they 
start  fair  altogether,  and  the  one  that  can  sing 
loudest  is  the  best  feller,  and  all  the  time  the 
ninepenccs  and  fo'pences  and  the  quarters  keep 
cr  clinking  into  the  boxes,  and  once  in  a  while 
there's  a  kind  er  lull,  —  that's  when  folks  puts  in 
bills.  And  when  they  come  to  the  boys'  gallery, 
you'd  think  they'd  knock  the  bottom  out  of  the 
boxes  with  their  coppers.  W'e  sJiall  get  home  in 
time  for  Thanksgiving,  sha'n't  we,  Captain.'" 

"  I  hope  so.  Royal.  Well,  I  guess  we  'vc  got 
pooty  well  through  oiu"  yarn  about  Cambridge. 
It  's  lucky  we  are  by  ourselves  ;  anybody  else 
would  think  we  was  a  couj)le  of  old  fools  in  our 
dotage.  How  my  wife  would  ha'  laughed  to  hear 
us  !  I  have  a  foiu-th,  Royal,  that 's  well  and  strong, 
the  best  of   vvi)men,  and  I    do  hope    she'll    prove 


II I 


I'll 


Kl'l 


40 


A   CAM  BK' I  DOE  ROBINSON  CA'C/SO/i. 


durable.  I  am  plaguy  fond  of  her,  but  I  'd  just  as 
lives  she  'd  be  out  of  the  way  when  I  want  to  talk 
old  times.  And  now,  let 's  know  how  you  got 
along  here  when  you  was  first  cast  away  t)n  the 

"  Well,"  said  Royal,  "  I  believe  I  was  kind  of 
wild  at  first,  all  alone  there  in  the  dark,  and  half 
drownded,  and  '  'uiscd,  and  waiting  to  hear  if  some 
of  the  rest  didn'u  ;ae  ashore  alive, — but  there 
never  did,  not  one.  I  hollered  as  loud  as  I  could, 
but  there  was  n't  nobody  ever  answered.  I  said  all 
my  prayers,  which  was  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the 
morning  and  evening  that's  in  the  Assembly's 
Catechism,  You  know  I  was  brought  up  real 
serious." 

•'  Hold  on,  Royal!  "  cried  the  Captain,  in  a  sort 
of  subdued  roar,  producing  a  very  large  bandanna. 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  told  you  that  I  was  sunstruck,  or 
plaguy  nigh  it,  off  the  Callipee  Islands  when  I  was 
a  young  man,  and  it's  affected  my  eyes  ;  if  I  don't 
swab  'em  once  in  a  while,  the  water  kind  of  erri- 
tates  'em." 

"  Well,"  resumed  Royal,  after  a  moment's  pause, 


A    CAMBRIDGE   ROB  IS  SOX  CRUSOE. 


41 


"when  I  found  in  the  morning  that  nobody  come 
ashore,  I  guess  I  was  sort  of  crazy,  and  strayed 
about  for  a  while,  and  just  laid  down  and  slei)t 
when  I  was  tired  out.  The  first  thing  I  seem  to 
remember  clear  I  was  digging  a  sort  of  clams  there 
is  here,  and  crying  and  eating.  I  was  n't  but  thir- 
teen year  old,  you  know.  I  sort  er  settled  down 
after  a  while,  and  I  made  me  a  sort  of  bunk  in  the 
ground,  and  put  in  ferns  and  such  stuff,  and  had 
some  more  to  put  over  me  when  the  nights  was 
chilly,  as  they  would  l)e  sometimes  ;  but  it  was  a 
good  while  before  I  slep'  real  sound.  I  used  to 
think  as  if  I  heard  the  drownded  folks  calling 
to  me.  Then  aiiain  I  wouKl  dream  that  it  was 
artillery  'lection,  and  I  heard  the  guns  on  Boston 
Common.  That  was  the  sea  coming  in  heavy  ;  it 
was  dreadful  waking  up  from  such  dreams  as  that." 

"  I  should  think  it  must  ha'  been,"  said  the 
Captain. 

•'  Well,"  continued  Royal,  "  one  day  I  was  going 
along  the  beach  alooking  out  for  a  sail,  and  saying 
over  a  psalm  that  I  had  learned  to  home,  ami  I 
heard  a  little  whine,  and  of  all  things  in  the  world. 


^.Il 


i 


ilil'i 


42 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


there  was  the  captain's  little  dog  that  I  used  to 
take  care  of  aboard  the  ship,  for  I  was  the  cabin 
boy.  He  was  lying  in  the  ferns,  just  as  thin  as  he 
could  be,  and  dreadful  weak.  I  catched  him  up  and 
run  with  him  for  my  little  bunk,  where  there  was 
what  little  pervisions  I  had.  I  was  so  afraid  he  'd 
die,  Captain  !  I  don't  believe  there  was  ever  a 
mother  more  afeard  for  an  only  child  than  I  was 
for  that  dog.  I  said  all  my  prayers,  I  believe. 
Well,  he  come  round  pooty  slow  ;  he  could  n't 
hardly  eat  at  f'rst,  ond  didn't  I  nuss  him!  And 
that  crcter  just  as  good  as  talked  to  me  with  his 
eyes,  and  I  used  to  answer  him  out  loud.  We 
both  of  us  knowed  that  we  was  pooty  much  all 
that  was  left  to  each  other.  When  he  got  strong 
he  used  to  go  with  me  when  I  went  my  rounds 
along  the  beach  on  the  lookout  ;  and  he  used  to 
look  just  as  hard  out  to  sea  as  I  did.  I  used  to  tell 
him  all  about  the  folks  at  home,  and  how  bad  I 
felt,  and  he'd  whine  to  let  me  know  how  bad  he 
felt  for  me.  I  believe  he  felt  worse  for  me  than  he 
did  <"or  himself,  but  then  this  was  his  third  voyage 
to  S'^a,  and  he'd  forgot  about  home." 


■k 


"  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  *'  I  j^ot  a  kind  of 
catarrh  Hke,  in  the  Jap-pan  seas,  that  affects  my 
head,  and  particklerly  my  eyes.  There 's  no  better 
thing,  Royal,  for  weak  eyes  than  a  ;vv?/  bandanna." 

"  Well,"  continued  Royal,  "  the  next  thini;  was, 
—  one  day  I'd  <;onc  a  good  way  along  the  shore 
with  my  dog,  and  the  first  thing,  I  heard  a  grunt- 
ing in  the  bushes  like,  that  you  find  here.  I  was 
afraid  it  was  a  wild  hog,  or  some  such  wild  creter  ; 
but  the  dog  he  wagged  his  tail  and  went  in,  and 
there  did  n't  seem  to  be  no  trouble,  and  I  follered, 
and  who  should  I  see  but  Dr.  Franklin,  that  I  told 
you  about,  —  the  little  pig,  you  know,  —  fat  and 
comfortable  .''  /A'  found  i)lenty  to  eat.  We  had 
him  aboard  our  ship,  the  smartest,  cunningest  little 
feller,  and  looked  so  knowing  that  the  captain  he 
once  called  him  Dr.  I^'ranklin,  and  so  he  got  the 
name.  They  let  him  have  the  run  of  the  deck 
most  of  the  time,  and  he  used  to  clatter  about  with 
his  little  hoofs  just  like  a  little  boy  in  new  boots. 
The  dog  was  dancing  about,  and  the  pig  was  grunt- 
ing his  pleasantest,  and  I  was  more  pleased  than 
cither  of  'em.     And  so  we  all  went  home  together. 


^1 


m 


1! 


Via  ■■  ■ 


W 


H 


44 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


I  am  afraid  I  'd  indulged  something  of  a  repining 
spirit  up  to  this  time,  Captain  ;  but  now  I  felt  it 
was  my  duty  to  give  thanks  for  such  blessings  as 
was  spared  to  me." 

"  I  should  think,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  that 
you  had  more  conveniences  for  a  fast  than  a  thanks- 
giving." 

"Well,"  continued  Royal,  "one  day  I  went  a 
considerable  way  with  my  two  friends,  kind  er 
lookin'  out  like  all  the  time  for  a  sail,  and  the  fust 
thing,  I  heard  somebody  swearing.  What  a  twist 
that  did  give  me,  Captain  !  I  jumped  much  as  a 
rod,  but  I  happened  to  look  up,  and  there  was  our 
parrot  that  I  took  care  of  aboard  ship.  The  sailors 
they'd  taught  her  to  swear,  and  I  'd  tried  to  break 
her  of  it  ;  but  there  she  zuas,  at  it  again.  I  was  so 
glad  to  see  her  that  I  did  n't  hardly  think  of  the 
sinfulness  of  her  talk." 

"  Why,  you  can't  blame  a  parrot  for  swearing  a 
little  under  them  circumstances,"  said  the  Captain. 
**  She  did  n't  know  no  better." 

••  No,  I  can't,"  said  Royal ;  "  it  come  to  her  through 
the  depravity  of  mankind,  I  know.     Well,  now  I 


A   CAMBRIDGE  RODIXSON  CRUSOE. 


45 


had  a  sort  er  family,  and  I  tried  to  make  things  as 
religious  as  I  knew  how.  I  got  up  a  sort  of  family 
prayers,  such  as  we  used  to  have  to  home.  The 
creters  used  to  attend,  and  I  trained  'em  to  behave 
pooty  well  in  the  main.  I  tried  a  little  singing 
once,  —  one  of  the  hymns  that  we  used  to  sing 
Saturday  nights  to  hcune,  —  but  the  dog  he  could  n't 
Stan'  it,  and  he  begun  to  whine,  and  that  set  the  pig 
agoing,  grunting,  and  Miranda  kept  saying,  *  O 
Lor,'  and  I  had  to  dismiss  the  meetin'.  I  hope  it 
was  n't  wicked  for  me  to  try  to  conduct  services." 

"  Wicked  !  "  roared  the  Captain.  "  But  I  declare  ! 
there  's  my  rheumatis'  again,  that  I  catched  in  the 
Arctic  Ocean  looking  after  sperm.  It  takes  rheu- 
m^tL>*  to  make  a  feller's  eyes  water.  I  don't  know 
where  I  should  ha'  been  without  my  bandannas." 

"  I  've  always  tried,"  said  Royal,  "  to  be  as  good 
as  my  depraved  nater  would  allow,  and  I  've  prayed 
to  be  kept  out  of  temptation." 

"  Why  !  I  don't  see  what  temptation  you  could 
have  found  ficrc^  Royal,  unless  it  was  to  hang  your- 
self, or  jump  overboard,"  said  the  Captain.  "  Did  n't 
you  never  see  a  sail  ?  " 


K  i^ 


h\ 


A   C A.] f BRIDGE  A'OB/XSO.V  CRUSOE. 


47 


desolate  tone,  and  again  produced  the  cocoa-fibre 
handkerchief. 

"  Here,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  if  you  must 
swab,  take  my  bandanny,  and  when  you  're  done 
with  it,  give  it  to  me  again.  I  shall  want  to  use 
it.  I  catched  a  violent  cold  some  years  ago  going 
round  the  Horn,  —  ship  half  under  water  for  forty- 
eight  hours,  —  and  the  remains  of  that  cold  is  lurk- 
ins:  ever  since."' 

The  Captain,  whose  eyes  had  become  a  little  red 
in  the  course  of  the  narrative,  wished  to  avoid  all 
suspicion  of  being  sentimental. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Captain,"  resumed  Royal,  "  the 
dog  pined  first  ;  I  guess  he  was  pooty  old.  I  did 
all  I  could  for  him,  but  he  died.  The  rest  of  us 
went  to  his  funeral,  and  I  tell  you  it  was  a  solemn 
time.  Well,  after  the  dog  died  the  pig  missed  him 
dreadful  (they  was  great  friends)  ;  he  went  grunt- 
ing about  enough  to  break  your  heart.  He  eat 
pooty  well,  but  his  victuals  did  n't  seem  to  do  him 
no  good,  and  pooty  soon  he  died,  '<\n<\  Miranda  set 
on  my  shoulder  at  the  funeral.  She  lived  ever  so 
long  ;  but  one  evening  in  the  twilight  she  jv  st  fell 


i 


w 


■m  i  • 


i- 


r 


48 


/I   CAMBRIDGE   RODINSON  CRUSOE. 


forrard,  and  hunj;  there  with  her  head  down,  —  she 
was  dead,  but  her  elaws  kept  hold  of  the  pereh. 
Then  I  was  all  alone  agin.  I  did  n't  hardly  know 
sometimes  whether  it  was  time  or  eternity  that  I 
was  in.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  my  religion  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  a  done.  I  hope  you've  got 
religion,  Captain." 

"  I  hope  I  '\e  got  my  share  of  it,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "You  know  in  my  calling  I  can't  spread  a 
great  deal  in  a  religious  way.  I  have  to  make 
my  religion  pooty  portable.  I  stow  away  the  doc- 
trine, but  I  try  to  have  a  little  practice  on  hand 
all  the  time.  If  a  feller '11  only  hi:  pleasant ,  he'll 
help  religion  along  considable,  without  knowing 
of  it." 

"  lUit,  Royal,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  've  got  to  tell 
you  now.  I  may  as  well,  first  as  last.  There  's 
been  terrible  improvements  made  in  Cambridge 
since  you  left   in  the  year  '20." 

The  Captain  imparted  to  Royal  by  degrees,  now 
and  afterward,  the  afflictive  substitutions  of  new 
for  old  that  had  taken  place  in  buildings,  public 


A   CAMBRIDGE  ROBINSON  CRUSOB. 


49 


and  private,  at  the  same  time  recounting  the  va- 
cancies which  time  had  made  in  the  population. 
Consequently,  in  the  brief  interval  before  tlie  shii)'s 
departure.  Royal's  face  was  frequently  liidden  in 
the  large  bandanna  which   th.e  Caj)tain   had  given 

him,  according  to  his  promise. 

JoH.N  Holmes. 


111 


w 


k 


Ht 


ill 


iiif 


IL  GKNOVESI-:. 


A   BALLAD   FROM   THE   ITALLW. 


'"  I  ^  WAS  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  so  rich, 

As  pretty  as  pretty  could  be  ; 
This  was  found  out  by  a  Genoese,  which 

Marriage  proposed,  but  she 

Was  put  under  lock  and  key. 

A  garden  the  Genoese  planted 

With  every  flower  that  blows  ; 

All  the  girls  picked  whatever  they  wanted, 
But  our  fair  one  never  a  rose, 
Because  her  papa  did  n't  choose. 

The  Genoese  gave  a  great  ball, 
With  thirty-two  musicians ; 


52 


IL   GENOVESE. 


Hundreds  were  there,  but  she  not  at  all, 
In  spite  of  the  free  admissions, 
Because  of  her  parent's  suspicions. 

The  Genoese  gave  a  great  feast. 

With  dishes  of  silver  and  gold  ; 

All  the  girls  went,  the  biggest  and  least, 
(Save  one)  the  young  and  the  old  : 
Papa  was  not  thus  to  be  sold. 

The  Genoese  set  the  bells  tolling  about, 
In  sign  that  his  days  were  over  : 

I'his  poor  little  girl,  she  put  her  head  out 
Of  the  window,  in  hope  to  discover 
Whether  reallv  it  was  for  her  lover. 

The  good  folks  said,  "  Your  hopes  are  wreckt, 
The  days  of  your  lover  are  sped, 

Go  to  church  and  show  proper  respect : " 
She  went  to  her  parents  and  said, 
"  My  first  love,  they  tell  me,  is  deado 

"  Dear  parents,  my  hopes  are  all  wreckt,  — 
He  is  dead  that  for  me  was  sighing ; 

Let  me  go  and  show  proper  respect  !  " 

"  Go,"  they  cried,  nor  tiiought  of  denying, 
"  But  let  us  have  no  more  crying." 


IL   GEXOVESE. 


53 


The  poor  girl  she  went  to  tlie  wake  ; 
Her  hnnds  she  kept  in  her  nuiff, 

Her  heart  it  was  fit  to  l)reak, 

Her  bosom  gave  many  a  pulT,  — 

She  thought  he  was  dead,  sure  enougli. 

But  when  she  came  up  the  aisle, 

The  (lenoese  no  longer  tarried  ; 
"  Stop  chanting,  friars,  priests,  in  that  st\  le  ! 

The  jest  need  no  further  be  carried  ; 

We'll  go  to  the  high  altar  and  be  married." 

Fkan'cis  J.  Child. 


1: 
I' 

II 


1! 


FRENCH  RADICAL  ELOOUEXCE. 


[The  following  extracts  are  taken,  with  only  the  slif:;htest 
possible  revision,  from  a  traveller's  diary.  They  have  the 
inevitable  defects  belonging  to  that  form  of  composition, 
and  perhaps  some  of  the  freshness  and  directness  which 
partially  redeem  those  defects.  I  might  have  attempted  to 
rewrite  the  narrative  and  make  it  a  more  symmetrical  atVair; 
but,  after  all,  there  is  a  great  deal  in  what  the  poet  Gray  says, 
that  ''  memory  is  ten  times  worse  than  a  lead-pencil.'"] 

Paris,  May  30,  [878. 
T  WAS  just  able  to  reach  the  Folic  Theatre  in 
-*■  time,  where  the  Voltaire  centenary  celebration 
was  to  be  held.  As  I  drove  up,  the  street  was  full 
of  people,  and  the  policeman  at  the  door  assured 
me  that  all  the  tickets  were  sold.  Indeed,  this  had 
been  already  placarded.  Hut  when  I  told  him  I  was 
an  American,  and  had  come  from  London  on  pur- 


4* 

I' 


iftMt^ 


hi 


56 


FRENCH  RADICAL  ELOQUE.\XE. 


pose  to  attend  the  festival,  he  left  his  place  to  an- 
other, and  hunted  up  a  man  who  had  a  seat  or  two 
left  and  sold  them  on  speculation.  I  got  a  douhle 
scat  with  a  young  Frenchman,  who  piloted  me  in, 
—  and  a  hard  piloting  it  was!  The  well-dressed 
crowd  surged  along,  and  the  old  women,  who  in 
French  theatres  find  seats  and  take  umbrellas, 
were  at  their  wits'  end. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  scenes  I  ever 
witnessed  ;  for  I  never  was  in  a  French  public 
meeting  or  heard  real  French  oratory  before.  I 
think  it  must,  when  at  its  best,  surpass  all  others, 
such  are  the  resources  of  the  language,  the  power 
of  expression  in  the  race,  and  the  degree  of  sym- 
pathy in  the  audience.  Never  at  the  most  excited 
political  meeting  did  I  ever  see  anything  like  it  ; 
and  the  fact  that  all  applause  was  given  with  hands 
and  voices,  never  with  feet,  indicated  a  far  higher 
and  more  delicate  appreciation.  To  begin  with, 
it  was  perhaps  the  most  intellectual-looking  audi- 
ence I  ever  saw.  The  platform  was  covered 
densely  with  men,  —  a  singularly  thoughtful  and 
able  body,  such  as  one  might  expect  the  French 


FRENCH  RADICAL  ELOQUENCE. 


57 


Assembly  to  be,  and  certainly  superior  to  Parlia- 
ment or  Congress  in  looks.  The  audience  was 
composed  of  men,  nine  out  of  ten,  and  the  same 
look  predominated.  I  could  not  see  the  ui)per 
gallery,  but  I  saw  none  of  the  lower  class  except 
one  blouse,  and  nobody  in  uniform.  And  such 
a  talking  as  there  was  !  It  seemed  as  if  they 
were  quarrelling  all  over  the  house,  merely  with 
good-natured  chatter.  All  were  French  around 
me,  and  I  was  so  glad  of  this  ;  my  companion  was 
from  the  provinces  and  knew  noijody,  but  on  the 
other  side  was  a  very  handsome  man,  full  of  zeal, 
who  helped  me  about  various  matters  of  informa- 
tion. When  I  asked  him  if  Victor  Hugo  was  on 
the  platform,  he  said,  "  You  would  not  ask  that  if 
you  knew  the  shout  that  will  rise  from  these  gal- 
leries when  he  comes  in."  And  applaud  they  did 
when  a  white  head  was  seen  advancing  through 
the  crowd  on  the  platform,  and  the  five  galleries 
and  parquet  seemed  to  rock  as  he  took  his  scat. 
Victor  Mugo  looks  just  like  his  j)ictures,  except 
that  his  white  beard,  cropped  short,  is  not  so  rough 
as   some  of  them   make  him  appear.     He  bowed 


M 

111; 


m 


«•'' 


58 


FRENCH  RADICAL  ELOQUENCE. 


and  sat  in  his  place,  the  two  other  speakers  on 
each  side  ;  and  the  bust  of  the  smiling  Voltaire 
with  a  wreath  of  laurel  and  flowers  rose  above 
Hugo's  head.  It  was  a  good  bust  and  a  pleasant 
smile,  a  rare  thing  in  the  pictures  or  busts  of 
Voltaire. 

The  first  speaker,  M.  Spuller,  was  a  fine-looking 
man,  large,  fair,  and  rather  English  in  appearance  ; 
he  spoke  with  one  hand  always  on  the  table,  but 
the  amount  of  gesture  he  got  out  of  the  other  hand 
was  amazing.  He  spoke  without  notes,  clearly 
and  well,  telling  the  plan  of  the  celebration. 
Sentence  after  sentence  was  received  with  ap- 
plause, and  with  "  Oh-h-h  "  in  a  sort  of  long-drawn 
literary  enjoyment,  or  with  "Bravo"  and  "Admi- 
rable." But  these  w^^e  far  greater  with  the  second 
speaker,  M.  Emile  Deschanel,  well  known  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  author  of  a  book  on 
Aristophanes.  Yet  he  sat  down  to  read  his  speech, 
—  I  found  afterwards  that  it  was  only  the  numer- 
ous quotations  he  was  reading, —  but  he  gesticu- 
lated as  if  standing  and  with  really  quite  as  much 
effect.     His  speech  was  almost  as  much  a  tribute 


FRENCH  RA DICA L   ELO Q i  EXCE. 


59 


to  Victor  Hugo  as  to  Voltaire,  often  running  par- 
allels between  them.  He  traced  Voltaire's  whole 
career,  commenting  on  each  part.  One  of  the 
most  skilful  passages  was  on  the  most  dangerous 
ground,  Voltaire's  outrageous  poem  on  Joan  of 
Arc.  lie  claimed  that  Voltaire  had  at  least  put 
her  before  the  world  as  the  savior  of  France,  and 
admitted  that  mo:;t  of  the  book  bore  the  marl<s  of 
the  period,  was  ''  liccncicjix  ct  coupabic ;'"  but  he 
retorted  powerfully  on  the  clerical  party  for  their 
efforts  to  protest  against  Voltaire  on  her  account. 
When  he  said  with  infinite  contempt  at  last,  ''Qui 
cst-cc  qui  Va  bnWef  (Who  was  it  who  burned  her.') 
he  dismissed  the  clergy  and  the  subject  with  an 
instantaneous  wave  of  the  hand  that  gave  me  the 
most  vivid  glimpse  of  the  flashing  power  of  the 
French  language  and  French  wit ;  it  was  swift 
and  final  as  the  gleam  of  Saladin's  sabre.  Then 
there  was  a  perfect  tempest  of  applause.  I  le  too 
was  a  large  fine-looking  man,  of  most  intellectual 
bearing.  There  was  no  music  in  the  intervals 
—  though  we  should  have  had  it  in  America  — 
and  Victor  Hugo  followed.  « 


II! 
I 

ijl 


M'' 


IK 


".-i  •  ii) 


Co 


I'REXCII  RADICAL  ELOQUENCE. 


I 

I 

In 


I:, 


)., 


rii 


i 


His  speech  was  also  written,  but  in  an  immense 
handwriting,  on  sheets  twice  as  large  as  any  fools- 
cap I  ever  saw  ;  and  he  read  from  these  without 
glasses, —  I  think  he  is  over  eighty,  but  he  hardly 
looks  seventy,  —  and  standing.  The  effect  was 
thoroughly  picturesque  ;  he  stood  behind  two 
great  sconces  holding  six  candles  each  ;  above 
these  showed  his  strong  white-bearded  face  and 
emphatic  right  arm,  and  above  him  rose  Voltaire's 
forest  of  laurel  and  the  smiling  Voltaire  himself. 
Hugo's  manner  was  strong  and  commanding,  and 
in  impassioned  moments  he  waved  his  arm  above 
his  head,  the  fingers  apart  and  trembling  with  emo- 
tion, and  sometimes  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head 
as  if  to  tear  out  some  of  his  white  hairs  ;  yet  it 
hardly  seemed  extravagant,  though  it  sounds  so.  I 
had  lost  hardly  a  point  made  by  the  other  two 
speakers,  but  sometimes  lost  his  from  a  thicker  or 
defective  utterance,  and  perceived  that  others  did 
the  same.  13ut  the  delivery  was  really  as  remark- 
able as  his  literary  style,  and  much  like  it, —  a  series 
of  brilliant  points,  and  applauded  to  the  echo.  It 
must  be  extraordinary  to  speak  to  an  audience  so 


F  RE  SCI  I  RADICAL   ELOQUEXCE. 


6l 


electric,  men  who  give  sighs  of  delight  over  a  fine 
phrase,  and  "  Ohs "  of  enthusiasm  over  great 
thoucrhts.  Hugo's  defence  of  the  smile  of  X'ollaire 
was  singularly  noble  and  powerful,  though  almost 
extreme,  and  his  turning  his  eloquence  in  favor 
of  peace  was  beautiful.  How  he  denounced  that 
"terrific  International  Exposition"  called  a  field 
of  battle,  and  praised  the  peaceful  victories ! 

After  the  address  the  applause  was  greater  than 
ever,  and  everybody  on  the  platform  seemed  to 
rush  at  Victor  Hugo.  I  never  understood  the 
scenes  in  the  French  Assembly  before,  and  they 
do  not  now  seem  childish,  but  impassioned,  as 
when  Deschanel,  during  his  own  speech,  once 
turned  and  took  Hugo's  hand  and  clapped  him  on 
the  shoulder  tenderly.  The  crowd  got  out  more 
easily  than  I  had  thought  ;  for  I  had  said  to  my 
neighbor  that  there  would  be  little  chance  for  us  in 
case  of  fire,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said 
dramatically,  "  Adieu  ! "  I  drifted  through  a  side 
entrance  where  Victor  Hugo  was  just  before  me, 
and  they  could  hardly  get  him  into  his  carriage; 
all  the  windows  opposite  were  full  of  people,  and 


\ 


Hit 


il 
I 


s  m 


M' 


FRENCH  RADICAL   ELOQUENCE. 


off  he  drove  amid  shouts.  I  think  there  are  few 
men  living  who  could  inspire  so  much  feehng ; 
partly  because  few  people  are  so  demonstrative  as 
the  French.  There  was  another  much  larger  Vol- 
taire celebration  that  same  day  at  the  "  American 
Circus,"  but  this  was  the  occasion  for  eloquence. 
Now  I  know  once  for  all  what  French  eloquence 
and  enthusiasm  are,  and  am  very  glad.  It  was 
also  Ascension  Day  that  day,  which  of  course  gave 
the  clergy  a  great  chance  ;  and  I  met  white-robed 
little  girls  now  and  then.  One  sees  many  shovel- 
hatted  priests  in  the  streets,  —  more  than  one  saw 
six  years  ago,  I  should  say  ;  and  it  is  curious  how 
the  two  sides  hold  their  own,  face  to  face,  each 
side  supplying  a  want  of  human  nature,  no  doubt. 

Paris,  July  14,  1878. 
H.  M.  came  in  while  we  were  at  breakfast,  and 
we  went  afterwards  to  Louis  Blanc's  appariement 
to  get  tickets  for  the  Rousseau  centenary,  which 
is  also  a  celebration  of  taking  the  Bastille.  Com- 
mitteemen were  busy  in  his  parlor  with  all  the 
tremendous   vivacity   and    action    of    Frenchme 


llli 


FKEXCH  RADICAL  ELOQl'EXCP.. 


63 


I  should  think  they  would  wear  themselves  out  in 
youth,  and  yet  the  old  Frenehmen  are  the  finest  1 
ever  saw  ;  that  is,  they  may  not  hold  out  quite  so 
well  physically-  as  the  luij^lish  or  Americans,  but 
the  educated  men  and  public  men  have  such  fire  in 
their  eyes  that  it  sets  off  the  gray  hair,  as  if  pas- 
sion and  emotion  did  not  exhaust  themselves,  but 
only  went  on  accumulating  strength.  I  am  always 
struck  with  this  fact.  Little  Louis  Blanc  came 
in  and  out  in  a  dressing-gown,  more  quiet  and 
equable  than  the  rest.  We  got  tickets  for  the 
evening  banquet  at  three  and  a  half  francs,  and 
cards  for  the  afternoon  free,  with  reserved  scats. 
To  prepare  the  way,  I  went  to  the  most  exclusive 
and  aristocratic  mass  at  the  "Chapelle  Expiatoire," 
but  got  there  just  at  the  end  of  mass.  Later  we 
went  by  omnibus  to  the  "  American  Circus,"  at  the 
square  of  the  Chateau  d'Eau.  This  was  where 
the  popular  demonstration  was  held  on  the  Vol- 
taire day,  but  I  did  not  see  it,  and  now  it  was  the 
scene  of  the  only  daylight  demonstration.  Crowds 
of  people  were  pouring  in,  but  we  got  good  scats. 
Everybody  seemed    French  ;    we   did    not   hear  a 


If 


'3' 

! 


iii 


p    fA 


if: 


'I 


«:       S 


\\  I. 


f,  i 


64 


FRENCH  RADICAL  ELOQUENCE. 


word  of  any  other  languag^e,  and  we  three  were 
surrounded  by  the  most  enthusiastic  French  peo- 
ple, jumping  up,  sitting  down,  calling  and  beckon- 
ing, and  talking  loud.  It  is  a  vast  place,  —  seats 
four  thousand,  and  there  must  have  been  six  thou- 
sand crowded  in.  The  noise  of  that  number  was 
something  deafening,  and  every  one  seemed  to  be 
looking  for  a  friend  or  making  signals  to  one. 
Most  were  well  dressed,  but  there  were  a  good 
many  blouses  and  white  caps.  All  was  good- 
nature, except  that  sometimes  a  man  would  make 
himself  obnoxious  and  be  put  out,  under  suspi- 
cion of  being  a  Bonapartist  sent  there  to  make 
trouble.  This  happened  twice  ;  I  saw  one  man 
dropped  over  the  stairway  gently  but  firmly,  and 
his  hat  was  carefully  bumped  on  his  head  as  he 
was  handed  along.  There  was  not  the  slightest 
riot,  however,  or  material  for  any  ;  too  much  good- 
nature for  that.  Opposite  the  high  tribune  [speak- 
ers' stand]  was  a  bust  of  Rousseau,  white  against 
a  crimson  velvet,  five  French  flags  above  it,  and 
wreaths  of  immortelles  and  violets  below,  with  the 
inscription  "  Consccra  sa  vie  a  la  vdritt^r     At  the 


I'KEXCH  RADICAL  i:LO{)i^£XC/:. 


6s 


side  were  panels  emblazoned  with  the  facts  of  his 
life.  After  a  while,  Louis  Blanc  came  in  with 
others,  and  there  was  hand-clapping,  and  "  /  7:r 
Vauuicstie  !  vivc  la  Rcpiibliquc  !  vivc Louis  JUauc !"' 
Then  singers  appeared, —  there  was  a  band  before, 
—  and  instantly  all  said  "  sh  !  sli  !  sJi  /"  and  there 
was  absolute  silence  for  the  Mar^cil/aisr. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  in  this  world  can  be  so 
fine  as  the  way  in  which  a  radical  French  audience 
of  six  thousand  receives  that  wondeiful  air.  I 
observed  that  the  chorus  of  young  men  who  sang 
it  never  looked  at  the  notes,  and  most  had  none, 
thjy  knew  it  so  well,  While  they  sang,  in  the 
soft  parts  you  could  almost  hear  the  proverbial  pin, 
so  hushed  was  the  attention  of  that  hitherto  noisy 
multitude.  Nobody  joined  in  the  chorus  the  first 
time ;  they  only  listened  ;  but  the  inslant  the 
strain  closed  the  applause  broke  in  a  crash  like  a 
storm,  and  the  clapping  of  hands  was  like  the  tak- 
ing flight  of  ten  thousand  doves  all  over  the  vast 
space.  Behind  those  twinkling  haiuls  the  dresses 
of  ladies  and  the  blue  blouses  of  workmen  seemed 
to  be  themselves  twinkling  with  light  :  there  was 


<«'' 


n 


ii.ii 


il 

rm 

■hI 

•^l| 

Im 

i'l 

ipw 

n  i 

JW'!"': 

in 

■II 

■li 

li* 

66 


FREMCH  RADICAL   ELOQUENCE. 


no  pounding  or  drumming,  only  hands  clapped  ;  a 
roar  of  "  bis  !  bis ! "  (for  encore)  went  up  every- 
where ;  and  after  the  second  performance  many 
voices  swelled  the  chorus,  and  then  the  applause 
was  redoubled,  as  if  they  had  gathered  new  sym- 
pathy from  one  another  ;  and  after  that  there  was 
one  absolute  gush  of  renewed  applause,  and  then 
perfect  quiet  as  Louis  l^lanc  began. 

It  all  brouq-ht  home  to  me  that  brief  and  macr- 
nificent  passage  in  Erckmann-Chatrian's  Madame 
Tlicrhe,  —  the  finest  description  in  recent  litera- 
ture, I  think,  —  where  the  square  of  I'^rench  sol- 
diers is  being  crushed  and  broken  in  on  every  side, 
and  the  colonel  on  his  horse  in  the  middle  takes 
off  his  chapeau  and  puts  it  on  the  end  of  his  sword, 
and  begins  to  chant  a  certain  song.  Instantly  a 
new  life  runs  through  all  the  bleeding  and  desper- 
ate men  ;  one  after  another  takes  up  the  song,  and 
the  square  gradually  stretches  itself  outward  again 
and  resumes  its  original  form,  and  they  arc  saved, 
I  could  perfectly  imagine  that  scene,  after  hearing 
the  Marseillaise,  which  was,  of  course,  the  song  in 
question.      Afterwards  there  was   another  air  of 


FREXCII  RADICAL   ELOQUEXCE. 


f>7 


the  first  Revolution,  the  Chant  dn  Depart,  played  by 
the  band  and  received  almost  as  eai^erly.  It  was 
very  fine,  but  unfamiliar  to  me  before,  strancje  to  say. 


Th 


ere  was  also  mu 


L 


sic  by  Rousseau,  and   I   had   n 


o 


notion  that  it  would  be  so  <;'()od.  It  was  finely 
sung  by  two  vocalists  from  the  Theatre  Lyric[ue  ; 
and  I  was  told  that  they  risked  their  places  at  that 
theatre  by  singing  in  an  assembly  so  radical. 

The  speaking  was  elocpient  and  impressive,  by 
Louis  lilanc,  M.  Marcou,  and  M.  Hamel.  All  read 
their  speeches,  yet  they  so  gesticulated  with  one 
hand  that  it  did  not  seem  like  reading.  Tlie  orators 
were  not  so  distinguished  as  at  the   X'oltaire  ccle- 


brat 


ion,    e.xce 


pt    T 


OUIS 


HI 


anc,    anc 


I    th( 


e    audience 


was  far  greater  ;  yet  there  was  quite  as  close  at- 
tention and  almost  as  delicate  appreciation.  One 
thing  struck  me  very  much  ;  that  when  there  was 
a  long  swell  of  a  really  fine  sentence,  if  any  one 
interrupted  the  flow  by  premature  aj)plause,  there 
was  almost  an  angry  "^7// j-/^/"  to  repress  it.  Once 
when  it  was  done  my  ne.xt  neighbor  said  excitedly, 
^*CU'st  trap  do pn'cipitatiou ;''  and  soon  the  reserved 
applause  broke  with  accumulated  i)ower,  like   the 


I'! 


!l 


!1 


r  hi 


4 


I. 


'I 

I!-  ■'    ,,( 


]'■ 


68 


FKIiXCH  RADICAL  F.LOQUEXCE. 


breaking  of  a  wave  at  last  when  the  shore  is 
readied.  The  utter  stillness  of  a  Parisian  radical 
audi(Mice  in  hearing  a  favorite  speaker  is  as  won- 
derful as  the  storm  of  its  applause  at  last,  or  as 
the  vivacity  let  loose  in  the  intervals  of  the  meet- 
ing. The  whole  lasted  from  two  to  nearly  six,  and 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  time  the  disentangling 
power  which  one  unconsciously  uses  in  hearing 
foreign  speech  was  so  wearied  in  me  that  I  could 
hardly  comi)rchend  a  word,  and  it  just  flowed  by 
me  uncomi)rehcnded  ;  and  it  was  much  the  same 
with  my  two  young  companions. 

We  were  due  at  the  evening  banquet  at  half  past 
seven,  and  lounged  gradually  along  an  intermina- 
ble street,  the  Rue  de  Belleville,  up  a  hill  towards 
the  outskirts  of  Paris.  It  was  in  a  thoroughly 
French  region,  no  more  "  English  spoken  "  in  the 
window,  the  streets  full  of  cheery-looking  people 
with  an  air  of  holiday,  and  not  a  few  children, 
even  babies  tightly  swathed.  The  banquet  was  at 
a  sort  of  cafe  in  the  Rue  de  Pelleville,  near  the 
city  barriers.  Perhai)s  five  hundred  people  were 
seated  when  we  arrived  ;  but  we  found  three  seats, 


FREXCJl  RADICAL  El.OQUEXCE. 


69 


and  I  fancy  we  wore  almost  the  only  forei^i;ners. 
There  were  about  an  equal  number  of  men  and 
women,  all  well  dressed.      Two   gentlemanly  men 


o 


ppos 


ite  took  an  interest  in  us,  thcnii-ht  we  were 


English,  and  were  much  pleased  at  our  being 
Americans.  One  began  the  talk  by  asking  if  I 
was  a  Freemason,  as  most  of  the  I^'rench  radicals 
are,  and  seemed  quite  sorry  T  was  not.  They 
drank  their  claret  to  the '*  Republique  Americaine," 
and  when  I  said  "  Vive  la  Republique  I'^rancj^iise," 
one  shook  his  head  and  said  it  was  a  very  different 
thing.  There  was  a  surprisingly  good  banquet 
for  seventy  cents  (A)nerican),  but  there  were  few- 
waiters  and  the  courses  came  very  slowly  ;  so  that 
when  we  left  at  ten,  they  were  only  at  chicken  — 
after  sou[),  fish,  ciifrccs,  and  /laricofs.  ICverv  now 
and  then  the  band  would  peal  out  the  Jf(irsci7/diSi\ 
and  all  would  join  in  with  their  mouths  full,  and 
pounding  the  tables.  One  of  my  young  ct)m- 
panions  said  that  the  brandisliing  of  knives  for 
this  last  process  was  the  only  thing  in  the  day  that 
could  pass  for  a  bloodtnirsty  effect.  There  was 
speaking,  and  some  of  it  entirely  without  notes  and 


,ll 


il 


m 


11  >. 


quite  eloquent,  chiefly  about  the  I^astille  ;  and  one 
si)eech  by  General  Wimpffen  was  received  with 
s])ecial  enthusiasm.  A  lady  also  read  some  let- 
ters aloud  from  the  platform,  her  appearance  being 
quite  a  novelty  in  France,  I  think.  One  peculiarly 
French  thing  was,  that  there  was  a  sort  of  dis- 
turbance, produced  by  a  man  who  would  not  keep 
still  during  the  speaking  ;  they  all  thought  him  a 
Honapartist  who  had  come  in  to  make  trouble,  and 
were  going  to  put  him  out,  but  he  explained  that 
he  had  not  had  anything  to  eat,  that  the  waiters 
had  passed  him  by  ;  and  then  all  sympathy  turned 
eagerly  in  his  favor.  He  was  fed  at  last,  and  all 
was  peace. 

Thomas  Wextworth  Higginson. 


m 


<- 


EMILY    ELIZABETH    PARSONS. 


IJIKI)    MAY     \i),     iSSo. 


Could  no  Apostle  death  forbid  ? 

Nor  weeping  widows  stay? 
Good  works  and  almsdeeds  that  she  did, 

How  powerless  were  they  ! 
Peace,  peace,  my  heart  !  and  grieve  not.  but  rejoice 
That  she,  the  faithful,  resteth,  till  a  Voice, 
More  piercing  sweet  than  Peter's,  saith,    ••Arise.'" 
And  in  the  upper  chamber  of  the  shies 
Alive  presents  her,— in  her  soul  the  touch 
Of  heaven's  first  ecstasy,  His  gracious  '•Inasmuch.- 


ACTS  ■   IX. 

ST  ;   MATT   :   XXV  :  40. 


S.  S.  J 


m 


i 

¥ 

j'jt  *' 

^d-.\ 

, 

i 

f-    'i 


!:^  .!♦.■ 


Ul> 


ill 


ii 


.M 


5^:^. 


/,•*% 

^>%i^. 


MY  FIRST  I'RIHND  I.\  CAMBRIDGi;. 


MY  feeble  sense  of  locality  had  been  upset,  in 
leaving  Bowdoin  Square,  by  the  fact  that 
the  horse-car  started  for  Cambridge  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent direction  from  that  in  which  it  arrived  ;  and 
on  the  way  out  I  questioned  the  conductor  from 
time  to  time  as  to  whether  we  had  yet  reachct! 
Harvard  Square.  He  treated  my  ignorance  with 
the  contempt  it  merited,  and  he  carried  me  a  little 
beyond  Harvard  Square  in  punishment  of  my  con- 
tumacious anxiety.  lUit  I  was  too  glad  at  finding 
myself  actually  in  the  desired  part  of  Caml)ridge 
to  make  him  any  reproaches,  which  indeed  he  did 
not  stay  for,  but  snapped  his  bell  \iciously  and 
trundled  away  toward   Mount  Aubuin  or  Porter's 


mn 


m 


in' 


ill:' 


74 


MY  FIRST  FRIEND  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 


Station  as  the  case  may  have  been,  while  I  set  out 
as  best  I  could  to  find  the  Poet. 

The  Poet  was  then  an  editor,  and  he  had  printed 
some  verses  of  mine,  and  had  even  written  me 
a  little  note  about  them  in  his  beautiful  hand, 
which  I  kept  in  my  desk  (when  I  had  become 
afraid  that  I  should  wear  it  out  in  my  pocket),  and 
went  and  looked  at  whenever  I  found  it  incredibly 
precious,  in  order  to  assure  myself  that  it  was 
really  addressed  to  me,  and  that  I  was  the  person 
to  whom  it  was  addressed.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
my  great  affection  and  gratitude  to  the  Poet  gave 
me  the  right,  somehow,  to  go  and  see  him,  and 
I  was  at  least  going  without  any  other  right.  I 
crossed  the  College  grounds  and  then  the  Delta 
in  which  the  Memorial  Hall  stands,  and  so  reached 
the  house  where  the  Poet  was  living,  and  found 
that  he  was  not  at  home. 

I  cannot  now  remember  whether  this  was  a  dis- 
appointment or  a  relief,  for  after  all  I  had  been 
very  much  afraid  to  go ;  but,  having  screwed  my 
courage  to  the  point  ^^i  going,  I  think  I  would 
rather  have  had  it  over  ^vith.     I  came  out  into  the 


street  again  quite  bewildered,  and  not  knowing 
which  way  to  turn,  when  I  met  an  old  man,  of  ci\  il 
condition,  as  the  Italians  would  say,  but  who  still 
impresses  me  after  a  lapse  of  twenty-one  years  with 
the  sense  of  one  who  had  retired  from  the  active 
duties  of  some  lowly  u  ilk  of  life,  and  was  solely 
devoted  to  the  performance  of  his  own  chores.  I 
cannot  account  for  this  impression,  and  I  do  not 
understand  why  he  should  have  known  me  for  a 
stranger  ;  perhaps  I  inquired  the  way  back  to- 
Harvard  Square.  At  any  rate,  he  discovered  my 
foreignness,  and  he  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen 
Jarcd  Sparks.  "  Because,"  he  said,  on  my  answer- 
ing that  I  had  not,  "theie  he  goes  now;"  and  I 
turned  about  in  time  to  miss  the  historic  fiirure 
which  had  just  vanished  within  the  gate  of  what 
my  informant  said  was  the  Sparks  residence. 

He  seemed  to  think  he  owed  me  something  in 
reparation  for  my  loss,  and  he  asked  me  now  if  I 
had  seen  the  Washington  Kim.  When  I  replietl 
no,  he  said,  "  Come  along,"  and  I  came  as  if  I  had 
been  one  of  the  centurion's  men.  I  wish  that  I 
could  recall  some  impressions  that  the  venerable 


76 


MY  FIRST  FRIEXD  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 


.   I 


tree  made  upon   m 


c.     I   must  have  stood  under  it 


and  l(jokcd  up  into  it  as  I  have  often  sinee  sarcas- 
tically   witnessed    stranjjers    doin<j:  ;    but    I    recall 


o  ) 


nothinLT  o 


f  it 


s  surrou 


ndi 


ners. 


The  Common  was  there,  no  doubt,  as  it  used  to 
be  before  the  present  monumental  nightmare  op- 
pressed its  laboring  breast,  and  the  Washington 
Elm  had  the  company  of  the  Whitefield  Kim,  now 
many  years  a  sacrifice  to  the  City  Forester.  This 
odd  contradiction  in  terms  had  not  vet  attacked 
the  former  tree  with  such  unsparing  surgery,  and 
its  mutilated  limbs  did  not  show  those  bandages 
and  poultices  which  now  appeal  to  the  spectator's 
tenderness.  I  stooped  to  pick  up  for  a  moment 
one  of  the  twigs  which  strewed  the  ground,  and 
the  old  man,  moved  by  my  piety,  said  he  had  a 
great  many  windfalls  from  the  tree  in  his  wood- 
shed ;  a!Kl  a  second  time  he  bade  me  come  along. 
I  have  not  now  the  least  idea  where  the  wood- 
shed could  have  been,  or  what  manner  of  house  it 
could  have  belonged  to  ;  entering  it  in  quality  of 
guest,  I  probably  did  not  think  it  fit  to  stare  about 
mc  a  great  deal.      I  sat  down  on  the  wood-pile. 


■« 


MV  F/A'ST  I'K/END  /.V   CA.UBh'IDGF. 


77 


and  my  friend,  takiti.L;-  one  of  his  windfalls  from  a 
shelf,  sawed  off  a  block  large  enough  to  satisfy  the 
most  rapacious  patriot. 

I  tried  it,  after  due  acknowledgment,  in  all  my 
pockets,  and  found  that  it  iticommoded  me  least 
in  the  breast  of  my  coat,  where  I  could  still  feel  its 
sharp  corners.  IMy  zeal  in  the  matter  wrought 
upon  my  benefactor  so  that  he  would  not  separate 
from  me.  He  gave  me  his  company  about  the  old 
town,  then  so  much  quainter  and  more  homelike 
than  now,  and  led  me  up  and  down  its  pleasant 
streets  in  pursuit  of  objects  of  interest.  Where 
or  when  he  left  me,  I  cannot  say  ;  he  departed 
out  of  my  consciousness  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 
entered  it,  and  who  or  what  he  was,  I  have  never 
since  been  able  to  learn. 

Years  after,  when  I  came  to  live  in  Cambridge, 
and  to  love  the  place  with  the  affection  almost  of 
J.  IT.  (who  once  in  a  burst  of  local  feeling  assured 
me  that  "  Cambridge  never  allowed  a  man  to  keep 
a  cold  "),  I  wholly  failed  to  identify  my  cicerone  — 
if  I  may  not  call  him  host  —  of  that  first  visit. 
Neither  could  I  ever  make  out  the  woodshed  in 


V" 


W.  if 


78 


MV  F/A'Sr  FN  IE. YD  LY  CAMBR.'DGE. 


which  I  had  enjoyed  his  hospitality,  and  had  been, 
as  It  were,  taken  to  the  bosom  of  his  intimate  life. 
He  must  have  died  long  before;  at  any  rate,  he 
was  forever  gone,  and  with  him  his  woodshed  and 
his  windfalls.  Some  r'rench-roofed  wooden  palace 
now  doubtless  rears  its  haughty  front  above  the 
spot  where  this  structure  once  extended  its  patri- 
otic bounty  to  the  wandering  stranger. 

Getting  older,  as  we  all  are  oldiged  to  do  with 
the  passing  years,  T  have  often  felt  that  if  I 
could  go  back  to  certain  places,  I  might  find  my- 
self as  young  there  as  I  used  to  be  ;  and  I  lament 
this  vanished  woodshed  because  I  know  of  no 
magic  even  by  which  I  could  replace  myself  in  the 
youth  who  sat  tliere  on  the  wood-j)ilc.  We  are  all 
gone, —  the  old  man,  the  woodshed,  and  myself, — 
and  one  not  more  irretrievably  than  another. 

W.    D.    IIOWELLS. 


TAHITIIA. 


FROM  AN  uv^rnusiir.n  poi-m,  nKnicATKi)  T(^ 

Miss    KMIL\     i:.    I'AKSONS. 


CWIO    I. 

THE  ripples  L::;c'ntly  break  on  Jaffa's  sliore, 
"I' is  Uvilii^lU  oti  the  western  sea,  no  more 
Is  heard  tlie  luini  of  toil,  --  a  j^oldcn  dim 
Just  j;ilcls  the  peaks  of  distant  (lerizim  ; 
Upon  thy  d\vellin;i;-tops  soft  fades  the  IiL;IU  ; 
The  breeze  is  gentle,  cool,  — soon  cometh  ni:;ht. 
'riiou  art  so  hushed  and  still, 

Canst  thou  expectant  be 
Of  the  great  miracle 

Soon  to  be  wrought  in  thee  ; 
And  dost  thou  listenini^  wait. 
With  scarce  permitted  breath, 


5.    -  if  • 


^-  ., 


TAHI  rilA. 


8i 


With  ai;c,  and  soiiu'  arc  youn^  ;  hut  all  hiiucnt 

And  wail  their  l)ittL'r  loss,  for  she  had  s[)cnt 

A  life  of  sweetest  charity,  and  now, 

With  j)iteous  pride,  her  t^l^■er  work  thev  show. 

Who  ii.uu  she.  in  that  upper  chainl)er  laid  ; 

A  staid  and  sober,  wrinkled,  crabbed  maid  ? 

Ah,  no  I  but  one  whom  her  own  iirief  had  tauLiht 

To  feel  another's  woe,  and  so  she  souL;ht 

'riie  sorrowing;  ones,  —  her  busy  tnim'is  wroui;ht 

On  many  a  _i;arment  for  the  lowly  poor 

Whom  God  has  called  his  own  wiili  promisi'  sure. 

t  •  •  •  • 

The  door  is  shut,  —  alone,  beside  lu-r  bed 

He  kneels,  the  man  of  (lod,  with  bowed  head  ; 

In  agoniziui;  prayer  lie  wrestles,  till 

lie  feels  a  mii^hty  faith  liis  l)osom  I'lll, 

And  then  he  calls,  "()   Tabitha,  arise!  " 

lie  takes  her  hand  ;  she  oix-neth  lu'r  eyes. 

And  now  she  sits,  —  she  stands,-      ()  lovini;  one, 

Receive  thv  dead  alive,  tiie  wonder-work  is  done. 

And  can  it  be  that  (lod  will  i^rant  the  life 

Of  one  we  love  to  us.'     ( )h,  blessed  strife 

To  strive  with  IIea\en  in  time  of  our  desi)air. 

And  ^rasp  by  faith  alone  this  blest  reward  ^A  i)ra\  er  ! 


ir 


% 


\  i:i 


t 


ll  t^ 


B]! 

■i 

li 

1 

1 

i 

! 

82 


TAIUTIIA. 


Now,  listener,  did  you  never  heed 
'I'iiis  jirecioLis  tiiou^L^ht,  thai  truly  we  ne'er  read 
In  Holy  Writ  one  word  that  proves  her  death, 
Into  whose  bosom  came  again  the  breath 
Of  life  ;  whose  chillini;,  faltering  pulses  stirred 
With  living  warmth  at  Simon  Peter's  word  ? 
Ah  no  I    I  've  traced  iier  footsteps  down  the  path  of  time, 
Have  caught  the  glimjDses  of  her  form  in  every  clime, 
Where  weeping  woman's  loving,  pitying  breast 
Receives  and  soothes  the  sorrowing  ones  to  rest. 
•  •  •  •  « 

r.wro  vr. 

C)  Church  !  one  of  thy  humble  ones  is  gone ; 

Of  a  despised  race,  and  one  upon 

Wiiose  wavs  was  shed  —  hers  was  a  toilini;  road  — 

l)Ut  scanty  drojDS  of  what  the  world  calls  g(j(xl. 

I  nto  her  couch  of  jKiin,  one  weary  morn 

Of  care,  when  my  desponding  steps  were  borne, 

Afy  dread  of  cureless  pain,  my  cloud  of  gloom 

Dispersed,  on  entering  her  huml)le  room, — 

ller  glad  old  face  with  such  delightful  cheer 

Was  lit,  as  to  her  couch  mv  steps  drew  near. 

It  needed  not  the  garments  on  the  broken  chair 

To  show  her  pitying  footstep  —  Tabitha  was  tJictr, 


lii 


I 


1 
1 


r ABIT  1 1  A. 


H3 


"  They  are  all  so  good,''  she  whispered,  while  a  tear 

Upon  her  dusky  cheek  showed  me  how  dear 

To  her  old  heart  the  proof  of  Christian  love, 

A  foretaste  of  the  sisterhood  above. 

Not  there  alone  ;  I  've  niel  her  oft  again, 

In  squalid  rooms,  where  sickness,  want,  and  pain 

Her  gentle  hand  has  nursed,  relieved,  and  soothed, 

To  lonely  graves  has  many  a  pathway  soothed  ; 

And  now  I  look  to  see  her  form  appear 

Among  your  band,  for  Tabitha  is  here. 


SriiPHLN  W.  Driver. 


|H     ! 


■XEKfeB 


, 


t 


A  STl'DY   I\   Till:  HISTORY  OI-^ 

camhriik;]:. 


11 


TT  is  the  thoiiL^htfiil  remark  of  n  writer  in  the 
Memorial  History  of  lioston.  that  amoni;  the 
Massachusetts  e(il()nists"  the  relij;ious  and  pohtieal 
elements  are  more  marked  in  the  views  and  pur- 
poses of  the  men  from  the  eastern  counties  of  1'Jil;- 
lanii,"  while  "the  commercial  element  existed  more 
visibly  amoui;-  the  adventurers  from  the  westein 
counties  of  Dorset  and  Devon."  Th<e  former  were 
c  immonly  known  as  "the  Boston  m-cn,"  the  latter 
as  "  the  Dorchester  men."* 

There  are  thre*  men  who  sta.Bid  ounn  bcvnd  others 
in  our  earliest  annals:  Jthr  \\'  wis  born 

in  the  county  of  Suflolk,  <      \i^  v.   .e      .-icm 


I   : 


Is' 


I' 


I 


hi 


I   . 


86 


.-/    STi:/)V  /.V    77//? 


coast  of  I'Jiirland  ;  Thomas    Hooker,  of    Lciccstcr- 


sliiix'.  also  in   the  cast 


ind  yet  more  prominently 


Thomas     Shepard,     of    the    adjoin! 


n: 


county    o 


)f 


Northampton.      Ik'twecn  Suffolk  and  Northampton 


w 


IS    Camhridife,    where    these    three     me 


■  --,^» 


n     were 


students.  They  were  all,  therefore,  from  that  part 
of  ICnirland  which  furnished  the  reliirious  and 
political  elements  of  the  colonial  life.  Whatever 
importance  we  may  i;ive  to  this  matter  of  localit}', 
it  is  certain  that  in  the  men  themselves  these  ele- 
ments held  the  conspicuous  and  controlling^  place. 
Two  of  them  were  clerg^ymen,  and  in  that  capacity 
became  the  leaders  of  their  colonies.  Our  first 
i;dvern()r  would  have  been  a  clerp^ynian,  prol)ably, 
had  not  the  persuasions  of  his  friends  induced  him 
to  abandon  the  study  of  Divinity  and  adhere  to  the 


pr 


ofession   of   the   Law.     He  was   a  man  o 


f  (1 


ec[) 


spiritual  thought.  It  was  full  of  li,L;"ht  and  warmth. 
His  "  Relij^ious  lCxi)eriences,"  recorded  by  his  own 
liand,  have  a  charm  in  the  rcadini;  which  has  re- 
minded his  l)io<;rapher  of  Baxter  and  Hunyan.  He 
was  called  into  the  counsels  of  the  Massachusetts 
Company  in    luigland,  whose  "  niaine  pillars,"  as 


il!!A^^..„ 


i;i?l 


' 


8S 


,1  sT(7>y  /.v  T/r/-: 


written  at  the  corners  of  our  streets.  The  same 
spirit  })erva(les  the  nine  reasons,  which  still  remain 
in  \\'inthro[)'s  handwriting,  encouraging  the  plan- 
tation. 

It  is  true  that  these  men  had  commercial  rela- 
tions among  themselves  and  with  others  in  Eng- 
land. This  was  necessary,  and  they  dignified  trade 
and  commerce  by  bringing  them  into  such  connec- 
tion. These  were  not  altogether  inhospitable 
shores.  The  fisheries  along  this  coast  were  well 
known.  They  had  drawn  the  ships  of  France  and 
Holland,  and  they  brought  ships  from  tlie  southern 
ports  of  (ireat  l^ritain.  The  emblem  of  this  bold 
and  characteristic  enterprise  has  long  hung  in  state 
before  our  legislators.  There  were,  also,  indefinite 
opportunities  to  trade  with  the  Indians,  and  to 
carry  into  the  homes  of  luigland  the  furs  of  this 
remote  wilderness. 

Business  of  some  kind,  remunerated  industry,  the 
means  of  livelihood,  must  enter  into  the  plan  and 
being  of  a  state.  Not  even  for  religious  men, 
exiles  for  liberty,  founders  of  states,  was  there  such 
vitality  in  the  air  of  these  forests  that  they  could 


insn^KV  OF  cA.MiiRinc,/-:, 


89 


live  without  broad.  Their  faith  was  stroi^i;-,  but 
not  so  simple  that  they  fancied  the  skies  over  the 
new  world  were  dark  with  falling;  manna,  antl  the 
gloomy  rocks  bursting  with  water-brooks.  They 
belonged  in  civilized  communities,  and  were  familiar 
with  the  fact  that  in  these  stores  and  shops,  fields 
and  farms,  money  and  merchandise,  have  their  i)lace 
as  really  as  churches,  schools,  and  homes.  Their 
godliness  was  of  that  practical  sort  which  inchules 
prudence,  economy,  industry,  enterprise,  and  lu)kls 
the  promise  even  of  the  life  which  now  is.  John 
Winthrop  was  over  forty  years  old  when  he  engaged 
to  lead  his  company  across  the  seas,  and  all  his 
manliness  was  in  all  he  did, —  in  his  i)olitical  ar- 
rangements, in  his  spiritual  designs,  in  the  last 
request  for  the  prayers  of  those  who  remained  in 
the  old  homesteatl  when  the  Arbe^ka  sailed  on  her 
tedious  voyage.  It  is  a  little  thing,  perhaps,  but 
when  these  men  held  the  first  Court  of  .Assistants 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  first  cjuestion  pro- 
posed was,  "  how  the  ministers  should  be  main- 
tained." It  was  decided  that  this  should  be  "at 
the    common   charge."     Here  was   our    beginning. 


d 


'■A 


.<iu 


^^>. 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


•.3  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIBSTIR.N.Y.  14580 

(716)  S7a-4503 


A 


if   : 


J 


f 

i' 


< 


i 

t 


^4 


I 

I' 

I     ■ 


LU 


///S/-()A'V  OF   ClM/lA'/fX;/'. 


91 


to  the  contrary,  it  niiL;iit  lia\'c  retained  that  dis- 
tinction if  the  j^rincipal  inhabitants  had  not  re- 
moved." In  the  colony  taxes  for  1^)33,  Ixxston  and 
Cambridge  were  assessed  in  the  same  sum,  X4<'^. 
and  Dorchester  in  /,<So.  Hut  in  1637  l^oston  |)aid 
/,'59  4s.,  and  Cambridge  but  Xj9  i2s.  In  the  le\y 
for  the  Pequot  war  in  1637,  Boston  was  called  upon 
for  thirty-ftvc  men,  and  Cambri<lge  for  twehe.  The 
settlement  on  the  oiner  side  of  the  river  was  out- 
stripping this  in  wealth  and  jiopulation.  Even  a 
windmill  which  had  been  erected  here  was,  in  1632, 
removed  to  Boston,  "  because  where  it  first  stootl 
it  would  not  grind  l)utwith  a  westerlv  wind."  The 
mill  was  like  the  men,  some  may  think,  much  set 
in  its  own  way.  lUit  wc  ought  to  remember  from 
what  region  the  west  winds  blew. 

The  village  here  was  to  make  its  own  peculiar 
renown.  The  true  founder  and  father  of  our  town 
was  Thomas  Shepanl,  whose  name  is  preserved  in 
several  ways  in  the  city,  and  whose  story  should 
be  familiar  to  every  boy.  He  was  a  man  of  marked 
character.  Tiie  hour  of  his  bnth  was  prophetic, 
for  he  was  born  on  "  the  Powder  treason  day,  and 


1 ,., 


(II 


'  1 


l( 


1  ii 

'1       .    '' 

i            n 

Hi 

92 


A   STUDY  IN   THE 


that  very  hoiire  of  the  day  wherin  the  l*arlament 
should  liave  bin  l)lo\vn  up."  His  father  lhouL;ht 
that  so  wicked  a  thing  would  not  be  believed,  and 
he  fixed  the  sign  of  this  iiicredulity  upon  his  boy 
by  naming  him  for  the  disciple  who  was  the  last  to 
believe  that  his  Lord  had  risen  from  the  dead. 
Thus  he  began  his  life  under  a  Puritan  j)lanet. 
I'he  grim  figures  of  Robert  Catesby  and  (iuy 
l'\iwkes  stood  by  his  cradle  as  he  looked  back  to 
it  from  his  manhood.  The  native  dread  of  ail 
which  was  even  remotely  associated  with  the  (iun- 
pcnvder  Plot  had  a  controlling  influence  on  his  life. 

"  Often  do  the  spirits 
Of  great  events  stride  on  l)ef()fe  the  events. 
And  in  to-day  already  wa'ks  to-morrow.'" 

Mis  training  fostered  his  birthright,  and  gave  him 
a  rugged  devotion  to  liberty  and  purity.  lie 
studied  at  Mmmanucl  College,  at  Cambridge,  "the 
Puritan  seed-plot."     It  was  hard  to  find  a  place  to 


-k 


work  \\\  wnen   ne  was  reac 


ly  t 


o  exercise  ins  uiits 


ift.^ 


Thomas  Hooker  thought  it  was  "  dangerotis  and 
uncomfortable  for  little  birds  to  build  under  the 
nests  of  old  ravens  and  kites."     Shepard  tried  such 


i  J 


ii/sroh'V  (y-  camukiiu^,/:. 


93 


iicst-buiklinLC  for   a   time.     It  \v:is  not  without   its 


com 


fort.    One  urcat  u"ift  came  to  liim  in  Voikshiri. 


where 


he  f( 


tl 


ound,  \\\  tne  ureat  house  o 


t  h 


)f  Sir  Kiehard 


Darlcy,  the    kinswoman    of   tlie    Knii;ht,    AhirL;aivt 
Tauteville,  who    became   Mari;-aret    Shepard.      She 


seems 


to  h 


ave  l)een 


a  woman  of  decided   character. 


and   was,  perliaps,  more  darinj^^  than   tlie  man   slie 
1.     iXmonu'  "  tlie  reason.^  which  swaved 


hac  marriec 


me  to  come  to  N.  I'!.."  he  writes,  "my  dear  wife 
(Hd  mucli  Ioul;  to  see  me  settled  there  in  j)e;nx', 
and  so  put  mc  on  to  it."  Iler  natne  mi,L;lit  \'cry 
titlinL;iy  be  <j,"i\-en  to  the  Hospital  in  whose  interest 


tl 


K'se  pages  are  written. 


So  th 


lis  "poor,  weal 


)a 


le- 


complectioncd  man,"  as  one  described  him  after- 


wards, came  with   his  fi'iends  an 


1    foil 


owers 


to  th 


e 


\illaL;e  here,  whicli  Thomas  Hooker  and  his  friends 
were  about  to  desert,  and  a  new  church  was  orL;an- 
ized,  and  Thomas  Shepard  bci^an  his  ministry  here 
of  thirteen  years,  which  he  di^nitied  with  his 
"  gracious,"  "  sweet,"  "  sweet-affecting,"  "  heaveidv," 


)ul-ravishin 


ll-ll 


soui-uour- 


"  heavenly-minded,"    "  s( 

ishing"  preaching.      His  wife  did   not  long  enjoy 

the  freedom  of  the  new  world,  but  she  left  a  saintly 


fi 

1  ''( 

1'    : 

\\ 

1 

*' 

»t* 

{ 

p   1      (i 

h 

u 


niSTOkV  OF   CAMIiKIDGi:. 


95 


first  rulini;  ciders  of  the  new  church.  And  Thomas 
Marrett,  who  was  probably  the  first  man  chosen 
deacon  of  the  church,  whose  honored  name  still 
remains  amonj;  us  ;  and  Nich(^las  Danforth,  Select- 
man and  Representative,  and  the  father  of  dis- 
tinguished sons  ;  and  Thomas  Chesholme,  deacon, 
and  steward  of  the  College.  These  and  others  of  a 
kindred  spirit  joined  themselves  to  those  already 
here  who  did  not  choose  to  accompany  Mr.  Hooker 
to  Hartford.  Among  these  were  John  Hridge,  on.e 
of  those  of  whom  Shcpard  says,  "Some  went  before 
and  writ  to  me  of  providing  a  place  for  a  company 
of  us  ;"  and  Bartholomew  Circcn  and  his  son  Sam- 
uel, the  famous  printer  ;  and  John  Masters,  who,  in 
163 1,  was  engaged  upon  a  problem  not  yet  solved, 
by  which  Newtown  should  be  more  favorably  con- 
nected with  the  settlements  beyond  the  river.  Hut 
the  catalogue  must  not  be  lengthened.  These  were 
religious  men,  to  whom  religion  was  a  vital  concern, 
who  had  exchanged  the  old  country  for  the  new 
for  the  sake  of  religion  and  its  service,  lliey  ami 
others  like  them  gave  the  character  to  the  com- 
munity of  which  they  were  a  part. 


i 

-,p. 

11 

■ 

if 

EH 

:i 

1 

1 

1 

1 

I 


■  'J 


;?! ! 


H 
ill 


it 


11; 

■<: 
\  i^ 

Hi 


m 


:  I  M 


fill" 
it; 


"ill 

I  ■  ! 


^ 


I      I: 


f    j 


HISTORY  OF   CAMBRIDGE. 


97 


licre  is  supjgcstcd  by  the  fact  that  nearly  one  hun- 
dred University  men  joined  the  new  C(jlony  be- 
tween 1630  and  1647.  Of  these,  two  thirds  were 
from  Cambridge.  There  they  had  been  associated 
with  scholars,  some  of  whom  were  to  be  illustrious. 
Harvard,  Shepard,  Dunster,  Norton,  "had  trodden 
the  banks  of  the  Cam  with  John  Milton  and  Jeremy 
Taylor."  If  any  other  testimony  were  needed  to 
the  literary  taste  of  the  men  who  were  here,  it  is 
found  in  their  early  provision  for  education,  and  in 
the  setting  up  of  a  college  in  these  fields,  and  en- 
riching it  out  of  their  poverty.  In  all  this,  al.^ 
the  religious  element  is  prominent  and  effective. 
They  used  the  word  in  a  large  sense,  covering  all 
duties.  Not  in  all  who  were  here  was  the  moral 
force  equally  strong.  In  the  leaders  it  was  full  of 
efficiency.  Find  the  men  where  you  will,  busy  in 
their  daily  work,  engaged  in  their  common  worship, 
resting  in  the  quiet  of  their  homes,  their  spirit  is 
not  hard  to  discover,  and  when  it  is  found,  it  is 
honorable,  powerful,  religious. 

Ali:.\a\der  AIcKexzik. 


so. 


'  I 


I 


I  ■ 


I 


iiiia 


if 


ill 


'il 


iiill' 


S 


i 


PI 


» ♦ 


■\'U 


i 


ill 


THE  WIIIPPOORWILL. 


11  ? . 


I 


HIDDEN  in  twili-ht,  far  off  in  the  woody  fell, 
Waking  the  echoes  from  high  rock  and  citadel, 
When  the  clear  waters  in  moonlight  are  shiinnicrin-j. 
When  the  soft  banners  of  even  are  crlinnnerin'f 
Round  the  horizon  empurpled  and  vapory, 
From  his  high  arbor  of  evergreen  draperv, 
When  the  cool  night-winds  are  fluttering  wearily, 
Singing  his  hymn  to  the  solitude  cheerily, 
Hear  the  loud  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 
Sylvian,  lyrical,  musical  whippoorwill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill. 

Lone  serenader!  awaking  the  stillv  ni'dit  ; 
From  his  green  bowery  hailing  the  lunar  light, 


ij 


^ 


il?  V     1,1      ,>! 


r 


1 


'  'I 


k. 


100 


7V//-;    1 1  '////TOO A'  1 1 7/./.. 


^Vhc!l  the  dor-beetle  is  wanderinir  airily, 

When  the  small  owlet  is  foraging  charily, 

Hosts  of  gay  creatures  in  all  the  wide  latitude, 

()uietly  sleeping  in  silent  1)eatitudc  ; 

J'erched  on  his  sylvian  battlement  all  alone, 

Calling  aloud  in  his  musical  monotone, 

Hear  the  lone  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 

Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 

ICremite,  isolate,  wandering  whippoorwill, 

AVhippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill. 

Oft  have  I  loitered  at  eve  in  the  soliti;de, 
Tracing  his  haunts  in  the  maples  and  hollywood, 
^Vhen  the  loud  din  of  the  forest  was  quieted. 
Merry  birds  sleeping  where  lately  they  rioted, 
Ominous  silence  pervading  the  wilderness, 
All  the  sweet  solitude  quiet  and  echoless  ; 
Loitered  alone  in  the  mellow  eve,  pondering 
On  the  weird  shadows  that  greeted  my  wandering; 
Charmed  by  the  whippoorwill,  wl  \,poorwill,  whippoor- 
will, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 
Sorrowful,  errant,  melodious  whippoorwill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill. 


THE  wuippnoRwii.r.. 


lOI 


Bird  of  ll)c  wilderness,  doarer  than  Philomel  ! 
Echoes  are  telling  thy  notes  from  the  hill  and  dell  ! 
Lovers  and  poets  deligiited  are  listen ini; 
When  the  first  star  in  the  dewdrop  is  'dist'Miin'^  • 
Waiting  the  call  of  the  eremite  forester, 
Lonely,  nocturnnl,  and  sentinel  chorister! 
Prophet  of  gladness,  but  never  foreboding  ill, 
Carolling  cheerily  from  his  green  domicile, 
Uttering  whippoorwill,  n- lippoorwill,  vhij^poorwill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippooiw  ill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill- 
Sibylline,  tuneful,  r.;ysterious  whippoorwill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whippoorwill,  whij^pooruill. 

Wilson  Flagg. 


%m 


f! 


m 


\l 


in 


ii" 


TOI'SY-TIRVY. 


Ml 


i» , 


A  ARON  GOODIir:\Vi:S  was  a  i)lain,  lianl- 
•^  ^  working"  man,  stroni:;  and  stead \',  hiil  poor. 
What  he  earned  one  day,  he  and  liis  eliildrcn  ate 
the  next.  lie  lived  from  hrnd  to  mouth.  If  he 
nKinaL;cd  by  Iiard  striving;  to  lay  by  a  little  for  a 
rainy  day,  the  rainy  day  was  sure  to  eome.  Work 
was  scarce,  [provisions  high,  his  family  robust  and 
active,  and  hungry  as  little  l)ears.  lUit  Aaron 
Goodhewes  had  a  happy,  cheerful  temper.  As 
generous  a  heart  beat  in  his  bosom  as  if  he  had 
never  known  pinching  care  or  want.  If  he  had 
anything,  he  was  ready  to  share  with  any  i)oor 
mortal  that  came  along.  He  cast  his  bread  upon 
the  waters,  and  received  it  threefold  in  lo\e  and 


I04 


rOPSY-TURVY. 


V'i 


'!)M 


good-will,  and  not  a  man  in  the  town  would  refuse 
him  a  helping  hand  if  he  were  in  need.  But  the 
times  were  growing  harder.  Wages,  to  be  sure, 
had  risen,  but  where  was  the  work  ?  Aaron's 
unselfish  heart  bled  to  see  hearty  men  walking  the 
streets  and  begging  from  door  to  door  for  jobs  that 
no  one  seemed  to  give  ;  to  see  them  lounging  around 
their  fires,  or  wasting  their  money  and  time,  ay, 
their  very  lives  away,  in  drinking. 

He  thought  it  over  and  over,  until,  one  night,  he 
had  a  dream  —  a  wonderful  dream  —  that  treasure 
lay  buried  far  down  under  the  busy  streets.  The 
dream  was  a  reality  in  Aaron's  simple  mind,  and 
thus  he  reasoned  :  "  If  the  gold  is  found,  surely 
some  must  fall  into  the  waiting  hands  of  these  poor 
fellows  ;  at  all  events,  living  will  be  easier."  So 
he  pondered,  wondering  daily  how  he,  a  poor,  quiet 
man,  should  gain  his  object,  having  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon  but  a  vision  of  the  night. 

Now  Topsy-turvy,  the  spirit  of  earthquakes  and 
excavations,  bank  failures,  and  riots,  and  street- 
making, —  of  everything  that  turns  a  quiet  com- 
munity into  a  bustling  one,  —  perceived  what  was 


TOPSY-TURVY. 


lo; 


working  in  the  heart  of  Aaron  Goodhewes,  and 
came  speedily  to  his  help.  *'  I  will  jnit  it  into  the 
heads  of  these  good  people,"  said  he,  "  to  renew 
their  bridge,  and  you,  Aaron  Goodhewes,  shall  be 
head  workman.  Keep  your  eyes  about  you,  and  if 
you  find  not  the  treasure,  we  will  take  further 
measures." 

So  Topsy-turvy  set  the  sober  Cambridge  people 
to  tearing  up  their  ancient  bridge,  the  planks  that 
had  resounded  for  years  to  the  merry  tramp  of  their 
horses'  feet ;  and  the  mighty  stream  of  humanity, 
of  omnibuses  and  carts  and  light  vehicles,  of  foot- 
passengers  and  cows  and  dogs,  was  turned  from 
its  course,  and  poured  through  roundabout  thor- 
oughfares, until  humanity  became  very  cross  and 
impatient,  and  wished  the  dear  old  bridge  back 
again.  The  work  went  gayly  on,  however,  and 
Topsy-turvy  was  in  his  element  ;  destruction  and 
ruin  were  triumphant.  Gradually  order  began  to 
come  out  of  chaos,  and  at  last  the  causeway,  dusty 
and  muddy,  with  noisy  pavement,  and  city  side- 
walk, and  complicated  draw,  was  finished.  Hut  no 
treasure  had  appeared,  and  Aaron  (loodhewcs  la- 


■i  ( 


5       -  rp-M 


i;i 


ii 


mcntcd  loudly.     "  Hold  !  "  exclaimed  Topsy-turvy, 
"  we  have  not  finished  yet." 

Soon  everybody  began  to  say  how  dear  and  scarce 
oil  was  becoming,  and  oh,  what  wretched  stuff ! 
Nothing  but  smoke  could  come  from  it.  The 
light  by  which  our  grandmothers  knit  and  darned 
stockings  was  pronounced  beneath  contempt  by 
their  degenerate,  embroidery-lo\'ing  descendants. 
Delicate  fingers  shrank  from  contact  with  the  hand- 
lamps,  and  delicate  noses  resented  the  odor  that 
arose  from  heated,  crusted  wicks.  Then  came  the 
wily  spirit  of  disorder.  Wagon-loads  of  iron  tubes 
passed  jangling  through  the  streets.  The  pickaxe 
and  spade  buried  themselves  deep  in  the  hardened 
soil.  Men  sank  to  their  waists  beneath  the  surface, 
and  still  they  went  digging  deeper  and  deeper,  as 
if  they  would,  come  out  at  the  antipodes.  And, 
working  with  the  foremost,  active,  eager,  inspiring 
them  all,  was  Aaron  Goodhewes,  unmindful  of  the 
busy  street  and  curious  passer-by,  thinking  only  of 
the  lost  treasure.  At  night,  pale  lamj^s  and  barri- 
cades in  the  streets,  frequent  smashings,  wheels 
and  horses  plunging  into  the  deep  ditch,  bore  wit- 


TOPSY-TURVY. 


lo: 


ness  to  the  universal  rule  of  Topsy-turw,  until 
the  pale  beacons  were  changed  for  sparkling-  rows 
of  light,  as  though  the  stars  of  heaven  had  fallen. 
Hut  still  no  treasure  ! 

"  Surely  this  benighted  people  know  not  the 
blessing  of  pure  water,"  said  Topsy-turvy,  "  or  they 
would  have  an  acpieduct  from  yonder  lovely  pond." 
No  sooner  said  than  begun.  A  deeper,  broader 
channel  ran  through  all  the  streets.  Wheels  locked 
together  in  tlie  narrow  passages.  Huge  carts  and 
omnibuses  blocked  the  way.  Laborers'  heatl; 
pearing  now  and  then  from  subterran 
looked    with   a   strange    st 


o- 


ean   caverns, 


are   at   the    t 


umu 


It.   lil 


Ke 


gnomes  rising  from   their  haunts  to  see  what  the 


matter  was.     And   there  was  A 


aron  w 


ith   1 


lis  nil 


:\s 


axe,  working  with  absorbing  interest  in  the  deepest, 
earthiest  part,  stopping  neither  to  look  to  the  right 
nor  the  left.     The  public  declared  tl 


lese  innovations 


a  perfect  nuisance. 


;"r()wled  audibly  at  this  new 


outrage  on  their  beautiful  pond,  and  sent  forth  dark 
s  to  taxes,  and  threats  of  leaving,  in  a  body, 


us  ion 


all 

this  region  of  new-fangled  notions.     \'et,  stiangt 

to  say,  the  general  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  thi; 


1! 


lilfl 


III 


,■(»»»• 


k 


1 08 


TOPSY-TURVY. 


very  public  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  that  it  was  all 
for  the  good  of  the  public,  and  the  public  desired 
it  of  all  things  ;  which  was  the  more  provokin*;. 
Still,  nothing  but  layers  of  sand,  and  layers  of 
gravel,  and  black  earth,  and  light  earth  !  How- 
ever interesting  to  geologists,  they  were  not  gold. 
And  now  for  a  last  stroke,  to  undermine  the  whole 
road . 

For  a  long  time  back,  discontent  had  accom- 
panied travellers  into  the  clumsy  omnibuses,  and 
undisguised  exultation  had  got  out  with  them. 
Nothing  could  be  more  stupefying,  more  directly 
opposed  to  social  conversation,  more  wearing  to  the 
nerves,  the  throats,  and  the  bodies  generally  of 
passengers  than  these  rackety,  rickety,  creaking, 
jarring,  rumbling  vehicles.  When  the  boy,  the 
only  enlivening  and  entertaining  part  of  the  whole 
affair,  was  changed  for  a  leather  strap,  patience 
could  endure  no  longer.  And  when  the  horses 
were  trained,  apparently,  to  start  just  as  the  un- 
lucky passenger  was  balancing  on  the  lower  step, 
preparing  for  a  dainty,  leisurely  descent  into  the 
mud  ;  when   the   drivers   became    gruffy,   and    so 


many  incomprehensible  "  lines  "  started  up,  that 
people  were  as  likely  to  find  themselves  landed  in 
Charlestown  as  in  Cambridge,  —  then  Toj)sy-turvy 
seized  his  chance.  He  sent  a  whisper  on  the  wind, 
which  was  caught  up  and  repeated,  until  all  Cam- 
bridge echoed  with  the  shout,  "  Horse  Railroatl !  " 

Gangs  of  men  appeared  as  if  by  magic.  I'hc 
streets  were  full,  —  crowded.  Side  by  side,  in  rows 
of  three,  they  worked,  breaking  the  earth  with  huge 
mattocks,  digging,  scraping,  rolling  great  stones, 
beating  and  pounding,  laying  solid  beams  this  way 
and  that,  along  and  across,  sawing  and  planing  and 
hammering.  Hoarse  voices  and  a  ceaseless  clatter 
of  axes  and  spades  drowned  all  other  noises.  The 
air  was  redolent  with  tobacco.  Laborers'  coats 
hung  on  aristocratic  fences.  Laborers'  dinners  in 
tin  pails  were  set  inside  of  private  yards.  Stones 
and  earth  rolled  over  the  narrow  pathway  from  em- 
bankments  cast  up  against  the  sidewalks.  Great 
pools  of  water,  settling  behind  these  dykes,  waited 
silently  in  dark  places  to  entrap  unwary  mortals. 
Through  all,  the  work  went  on  steadily,  rapidly  ; 
but  no  treasure  turned  up. 


\m\\ 


I 


no 


TOrSY-TURVY. 


Aaron  Goodhcwcs  kancd  on  his  spade  when  the 
otlicr  laborers,  careless  and  merry,  had  gone  from 
their  work,  and  thus  complained  :  ''  O  faithless 
spirit !  Why  have  you  deceived  me  ? "  Then 
came  Topsy-turvy,  with  his  usual  headlong  speed. 
"  Have  you  not  found  your  treasure,  ungrateful 
man  ?  And  has  it  not  gone  where  you  most  de- 
sired ?  See  your  comrades  filled  and  satisfied. 
Work  has  been  abundant.     No  excuse  for  idleness  ! 


No   time  to   waste  in  drinkintr 


or 


be 


c'iimr 


!     N 


o 


scarcity  of  wages  !     They  and  you,  Aaron    Good- 
hcwcs, have  found  the  treasure." 

So  sa}ing.  Topsy-turvy  flew  away  to  superintend 
the  pitch  pavement  in  the  neighboring  city,  and 
rejoice  his  heart  in  the  dire  commotion. 

Mrs.  Ezra  Abbott, 


^^J^ 


.  I 


THE  OLD  NURSK. 


IT  ER  gentle  spirit  had  no  creed, 
A    She  lived  to  succor  souls  in  need  ; 
Through  her  calm  eyes  religion  shone, 
And  lit  the  face  she  looked  upon. 

Where  anguish  ploughed  up  bosom-weeds, 
She  scattered  love's  immortal  seeds, 
Till  sometimes,  gray-haired,  dying  men 
Dreamt  sunnv  childhood  dawned  ajrain. 

Some  thought  a  cheerless  life  she  spent, 
And  wondered  at  her  sweet  content ; 
But,  by  the  solace  round  her  thrown, 
We  knew  she  did  not  walk  alone. 

Flktcher  Bates. 


•I 


HISTORIC  HOSPITALITY. 


T  T  /"HEN  the  Good  Samaritan  found  thcwound- 
^  •  cd  man  on  the  way  to  Jericho,  he  knew  of 
no  better  place  to  take  him  than  an  inn,  and  if  we 
are  to  judge  by  the  representation  of  travellers,  an 
inn  in  the  Holy  Land  is  not  adapted  to  giv^e  com- 
fort even  to  a  well  man,  and  we  can  only  imagine 
the  discomforts  which  would  have  been  found  there 
by  one  "half  dead." 

When  the  Good  Bostonian  finds  in  the  streets 
a  sufferer  from  any  cause,  he  is  able  to  select,  from 
a  variety  of  well-organized  hospitals,  the  one  which 
is  best  adapted  to  give  not  only  comfort,  but  the 
most  skilful  surc^ical  and  medical  attendance. 

In  the  nineteen  hundred  years  which  have  inter- 


I 


i  '^  I 


1 

i 


%i        y»'  i 


I 


I 


'.'} 


yj 


114 


HISTORIC  HOSPITALITY. 


vcncd,  a  great  chan2,"e  lias  come  over  the  practice 
of  hospitality  in  all  of  its  different  categories. 
From  the  days  of  Abraham  to  the  time  of  the 
Good  Samaritan,  hospitality  was  personal,  and  the 
good  man  sat  at  his  tent  door  ready  to  "  entertain 
angels  unawares,"  or  slowly  passed  down  the 
minmlain  road  ready  to  take  his  neighbor  by  the 
hand  and  set  him  on  his  own  beast,  and  pay  his 
expenses  at  an  inn. 

The  first  hospitals  {Jiospitalia)  among  the  Romans 
were  intended,  not  for  invalids,  but  merely  for  the 
accommodation  of  guests.  No  obligation  was  more 
sacred  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans  than  that  of 
hospitality,  which  may  be  also  considered  one  of  the 
natural  virtues  of  uncivilized  people. 

Hospitality  among  them  was  exercised  every- 
where and  always,  the  guests  at  first  being  received 
into  the  immediate  family  of  the  host.  At  a  later 
period  the  strangers  were  entertainevl  in  a  separate 
part  of  the  host's  dwelling,  the  right  of  hospitality 
thereby  losing  something  of  its  personal  character. 
Still  later,  as  the  number  of  travellers  and  strangers 
became  greater,  caravansaries  and  establishments 


',  I 


nisroh'/c  iiosi'i r.M.i iv 


"5 


for  the  organized  care  of  \va)farers  became  a  ne- 
cessity. 

In  the  early  years  of  the  Ciiristian  era,  private 


cliarity  was  a  sufficient  provisio 


n 


for  tl 


le  neec 


Is  of 


the  poor  ai  d  sufferini,^ ;  but  l)y  the  fourth  centui-y 
a  want  was  recognized  for  establishnii'nts  in  wliicli 
strangers,  travellers,  invalids,  and  those  suffering 
from  accidents  might  receive  protection  anil  care. 
It  is  said  that  the  world  owes  to  I'abiola,  a  noble 
Roman  matron,  the  foundation  of  the  first  hos|)ital 
for  the  sick  which  corresponds  to  those  of  modern 
times.  We  are  quite  willing  to  believe  that  this 
tradition  iytrue,  as  we  meet  to  put  our  hands  anew 
to  the  blessed  work  which  owes  its  origin  to  one 
of  the  noble  ladies  of  our  own  fair  town. 

From  the  days  of  Fabiola  to  the  time  of  Tjiiily 
Parsons,  the  impersonal  character  of  hospitality  has 
become  more  and  more  em})hasized,  as  the  world 
has  grown  into  a  broader  charit)'  which  spreads  its 
blessed  mantle  as  wide  as  the  wants  and  ills  of  the 
human  race. 

In  our  time  the  sufferer  is  not  left  to  the  chance 
ministrations  of  empiric  practitioners,  even  though 


t    % 


M 


1 

I 


I 

1' 


% 


I 


>  ti 


I  •>      ! 


n 


'S    ( 


of  the  warmest  hearts,  nor  to  the  stray  Samaritan  ; 
but  the  highest  science  reaches  down  to  the  hum- 
blest child  of  sorrow,  and  cheers  his  hours  of  sad- 
ness by  assuring  him  that  all  the  wisdom  and  skill 
of  the  nineteenth  century  civilization  is  freely  at 
his  service. 

"  The  primal  duties  shine  aloft,  like  stars  ; 
The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man,  Uke  flowers." 

Arthur  Gil.max. 


THE  HHRITACE  OF  SUFFERl-RS. 


TF  ever  sonrr  of  poet  or  of  saint 

Had  office  doubly  blest; 
If  ever  proverb  \vei-;hty,  witty,  quaint, 

Or  luimor's  happy  jest, 
Were  for  our  help  and  cheer  divinely  meant, 

It  is  for  those  distrest ;  — 
Whom  Heaven  hath  first  the  gift  of  sufferin*;  sent, 

Inherit  all  the  best. 

CHAKLOTTK    FisKK    B ATI'S. 


HI 


?•:; 


I' 


jssfffra 


'|M"«' 


sEsamssaa 


1R^  skmemhatkammimaimtimi 


vW 


REX'S  VACATION. 


[Part  of  this  story  has  been  printed  before  in  a  Fair  book, 
and  is  repeated  here  in  order  to  add  the  Conchision  inciuired 
for  by  friendly  readers.] 

T   WAS  long  the  "  Illustrious  Lazy  "  of  my  class. 

^  I  have  been  so  hard  driven  since  I  resolved 
to  make  up  for  past  idle  years,  and  win  a  more 
honorable  title,  that  I  am  wasted  to  a  shadow,  and 
fears  are  entertained  that  I  shall  wholly  vanish 
into  thin  air.  My  physician  talks  of  nervous  pros- 
tration, and  sends  me  to  RatborouL;h,  as  the  place 
of  all  others  the  most  favorable  for  entire  intel- 
lectual repose.  I  am  living  with  my  old  aunt, 
Tabitha  Mint,  who  was  wont  to  rock  and  trot  me, 
and  wash  my  face  in  my  helpless  infancy,  and  can 


{■■• 


% 


^1 


1  ?' 


MiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiMiMBHl 


tj  ■  "I 

.1      ij 


1 20 


A'/sW:;    VACATIO.V. 


hardly  believe  I  have  outgrown  such  endearing 
assiduities  in  the  twenty-two  years  that  have  in- 
tervened. 

There  is  another  personage  in  the  household 
who  probably  thinks  that  in  the  exuberant  kind- 
ness of  my  aunt  I  have  a  full  average  of  civility 
without  the  least  interest  on  her  part.  But  as  I 
have  not  even  a  book  allowed  me  to  take  up  my 
thoughts,  my  curiosity  fixes  itself  strangely  on  this 
silent,  sulky,  meditative  little  person,  who  takes 
about  as  much  notice  of  me  as  of  the  figure  of 
Father  Time  over  the  clock. 

What  can  such  a  body  have  to  think  about  the 
livelong  day,  that  is  so  absorbing  that  all  one's 
briirht  thouiihts  and  one's  most  whimsical  sallies 
pass  without  notice  .-*  Should  I  see  her  once  move 
a  muscle  of  her  very  plain,  doggedly  inexpressive, 
provokingly  composed  phiz,  I  should  jump  up  and 
cry  "  Bo  !  "  with  surprise.  She  vanishes  several 
hours  at  a  time,  and  I  hear  her  humming  to  her- 
self in  rooms  I  do  not  frequent.  While  I  gnaw 
my  nails  and  stretch  and  yawn,  I  hear  that  con- 
tented murmur,  and   now  and  then  a  light,  rapid 


^*fl 


step  on  the  stairs,  and  I  wonder  how  she  can  be  so 
happy  in  this  dull  house  alone. 

There  is  a  piano,  but  as  silent  as  she  is.  I  do 
not  see  her  wince,  though  I  drum  upon  the  keys 
with  the  most  ingenious  discords,  and  sing  false  on 
purpose  as  loud  as  I  can  bellow.  I  will  not  ask 
her  if  she  can  play  ;  she  can  have  no  ear  at  all,  or 
she  would  box  mine  in  self-defence. 

There  is  somebody,  by  name  Mora,  who  is 
looked  for  daily  by  stage-coach.  "  Flory,"  says 
my  aunt,  "  sings  like  a  canary-bird,  and  plays  a 
sight,"  and  at  sight  too,  it  seems.  This  Miss 
Flora  will  be  found  to  possess  a  tongue,  I  hope, 
and  the  disposition  to  give  it  exercise.  I  do  not 
know  certainly  as  Miss  T^tty  —  by  the  way,  what 
is  her  real  name.'*  I  won't  condescend  to  ask  any 
question  about  her.  But  really,  I  wish  1  knew 
whether  it  is  Mehitable  ;  perhaps  Henrietta.  No, 
no,  that  is  too  pretty  a  name ;  I  will  call  her 
Litt/c  I'g/y. 

Hark  !  I  have  two  or  three  times  heard  a  very 
musical  kuiLih  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen.  I 
will   inquire   into  this   gay  outbreak    in   a  land   of 


m 

M 


?  * 


fi'I 


m 


122 


A' EX'S   KICAT/O.V. 


Stupidity.  Irish  humor,  probably,  as  I  licar  Norah 
laughing  too,  after  her  guttural  fashion.  As  I 
popped  my  head  into  the  kitchen,  Little  Ugly  was 
just  vanishing  at  the  opposite  doer.  I  could  not 
make  Norah  tell  me  what  Miss  l^Ltty  put  under  her 
arm,  as  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  me  and 
darted  out  of  sight.  Oh,  my  noisy  boots  !  I  might 
as  well  wear  a  bell  round  my  neck. 

Stage-wheels  are  rattling  up  the  road.  Now 
they  run  upon  the  grass  before  the  door.  I  rush 
in  undignified  haste  to  the  window.  Shall  I  — 
will  I  —  go  and  help  this  long-expected  Miss  VXoxa 
to  alight }  No,  for  I  sec  forty  boxes  on  the  coach- 
top.  A  very  handsome  girl,  really!  I  will  get  out 
a  blameless  collar,  if  such  there  be.  First  impres- 
sions arc  important.  I  wish  my  hair  was  cut ! 
"  Yes,  aunt,  I  hear,"  and  shall  presently  arrive  to 
make  my  bow  to  Little  Handsome. 

Sept,  23<;/.  —  Truly,  the  presence  of  Miss  Flora 
Cooper  makes  the  old  farmhouse  a  new  place.  At 
least  six  hours  are  taken  from  the  length  of  the 
days.  Now  am  I  relieved  from  that  tedious  com- 
panion, my  own  self.     I  never  liked  him  very  well; 


\'  i 


A'/:X-S    I'ACATIOX. 


123 


he  scolds  mc,  just  as  a  stay-at-home  wife  lectures 
a  gay  husband,  who  never  returns  to  his  better 
half  when  he  finds  anything  to  amuse  him  abroad. 
Good-by,  old  fellow  ;  I  have  found  better  company 
than  your  rememberings  and  ho[)ings,  to  wit, 
Miss  Flora  Cooper,  alias  Little  Handsome,  alias 
Aunt  Tabitha's  canary. 

The  first  day  or  two  after  h(_r  arrival.  Miss  I-'lora 
pouted  at  me.  I  was  exceedingly  well  amused, 
making  all  the  saucy  speeches  I  could  think  of  in 
pure  mischief.  Finding  her  displeasure  was  not 
producing  any  particular  effect,  I  imagine  the  in- 
dignant beauty  begins  to  plot  a  different  revenge 
on  me.  Ila,  ha!  it  is  not  because  you  like  me 
better  than  you  did,  Miss  Flora,  that  you  are  all 
smiles  and  grace  and  sunshine.  I  shall  not  flatter 
you  the  more,  I  am  determined.  I  am  on  my 
guard.  No,  no,  Little  Handsome!  I  am  no  lady's 
man  ;  I  was  never  flirted  withal  in  my  life.  I  defy 
your  smiles  as  stoutly  as  your  frowns.  I  like  your 
pretty  face,  but  you  should  not  be  so  conscious  of 
its  beauty.  I  am  tired  of  your  pretty  surprise, 
your  playful  upbraidings,  and  the  raps  of  your  fan. 


'ij 


wwwwFB*iw  .11.11  .w%iiiiii»ffg; 


r^,.\  i,imi<f^n^l«»  ».n.Jir.»niwi»iii.i«iiiir« 


124 


J? EX'S   VACATION. 


I    I  ■    r 


■i 


h!    it 


I? 


I  want  more  repose  of  manner,  Little  Handsome ! 
What  a  contrast  you  and  Miss  Etty  present !  I 
am  glad  you  have  given  up  following  her  out  of 
the  room  the  moment  we  rise  from  table.  You  sit 
down  to  your  tiny  basket  and  demurely  take  out 
something  that  passes  for  work.  I  do  not  see  you 
do  much  at  it,  however.  I  give  you  warning  that 
I  never  hold  skeins  to  be  wound,  not  I !  I  will  not 
read  aloud,  so  you  need  not  offer  me  "  Sonnet  to 
Flora"  in  manuscript,  nor  your  pet  poet  in  print. 
We  will  talk.  It  is  a  comfort  to  have  my  wit 
appreciated,  after  wasting  so  much  on  my  aunt 
who  cannot,  and  Miss  Etty  who  will  not,  under- 
stand. 

24///.  —  Charming  little  Canary  !  I  have  spent 
the  forenoon  with  her  at  the  piano.  I  like  her 
playing  when  she  does  not  attempt  my  favorite 
songs.  It  must  be  confessed  she  is  apt  to  vary, 
and  not  for  the  better  always.  Her  throat  is  a  fine 
instrument ;  I  shall  teach  her  to  use  it  with  more 
expression  and  feeling.  We  will  have  another 
lesson  to-morrow. 

I  thought,  though,  there  was  a  shadow  over  her 


A'/iA'-.s-  r.icArio.v. 


125 


:;  ' 


face  when  I  called  it  practisiiii^.  Etty's  eyes  met 
mine  at  the  moment,  —  a  rare  occurrence.  What 
was  her  thought?  One  cannot  read  in  her  immov- 
able face. 

Ei'oiiiii:.  —  r  am  booked  for  a  horseback  ride 
with  Little  Handsome  to-morrow  morning.  I  low 
did  she  make  me  offer.'  I  did  not  mean  to.  All 
country  girls  ride,  I  believe.  I  often  see  Miss 
ICtty  cantering  through  the  shady  lanes  all  by 
herself.  I  saw  the  bars  down  at  the  end  of  the 
track  through  the  woods,  one  day.  I  immediately 
concluded  that  Little  Ugly  had  paced  off  that  way, 
that  I  need  not  see  her  from  my  •  indow.  I  put 
the  bars  up  again,  and  lay  in  wait  behind  the 
bushes.  Soon  I  heard  her  approaching.  I  come 
forward  as  she  comes  near  on  that  rat-like  pony  of 
hers,  who  holds  his  head  down  as  if  searching  for 
something  lost  in  the  road.  I  stand  in  doubt 
whether  to  laugh  at  her  predicament,  or  advance 
in  a  gentlemanly  manner  to  remove  the  obstacle  I 
had  put  in  her  way.  When  lo  !  the  absurd  little 
nag  clears  it  at  a  bound,  and  skims  away  over  the 
green  track  like  a  swallow,  till  he  vanishes  under 


\  i 

V. 


\X\ 


'      'l 

126 


AViX'S   I'ACATIOX. 


the  leafy  arch.  I  am  left  in  a  fooHsh  attitude,  with 
mouth  and  eyes  wide  open. 

Now  this  independent  young  lady  shall  be  at 
liberty  to  take  care  of  herself,  with  no  officious 
interference  of  mine  ;  I  will  not  invite  her  to  join 
us  to-morrow  morning,  as  I  intended.  I  wonder  if 
any  horses  are  to  be  procured  that  are  not  rats.  I 
trust  Miss  Flora  knows  enough  to  mount  her  pony, 
for  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  know  how  to  help  her. 
Whew!  I  hope  we  shall  meet  with  no  disasters! 
I  feel  certain  Little  Handsome  would  scream  like 
a  sea-gull,  pull  the  wrong  rein,  tangle  her  foot  in 
the  stirrup  or  riding-skirt,  faint,  fall,  break  her 
neck  —  O  horrors!  Will  not  the  dear  old  Aunt 
Tabitha  forbid  her  going  } 

25///.  —  Rainy.  Glad  of  it.  Breakfast  late.  Miss 
Etty  did  not  appear,  having  been  up  for  hours,  I 
imagine.  What  for,  I  wonder.''  One  thing  pleases 
me  in  her.  If  Aunt  Tabitha  wants  any  little  at- 
tention, —  a  needle  threaded,  or  a  dropped  stitch 
taken  up,  —  Miss  Etty  quietly  comes  to  her  aid. 
It  is  so  entirely  a  matter  of  course  the  old  lady 
only  smiles,  but  any  service  from  Flora  calls  forth 


an  acknowledgment,  it  being  a  particular  effort  of 
good-nature,  or  the  fruit  of  a  direct  appeal.  Miss 
I'^tty  talks  more  than   she  did,   too.     While  I  am 


talki 


nir  non 


sense   with   Little    Handsome,    I    hear 


her  amusing  my  good  aunty,  and  1  catch  a  few 
words,  her  utterance  having  a  peculiar  distinctness, 
and    the    lowest   tones   bein'r   fine  and   clear,   lik 


th( 


)f 


ose  or  a  good  singer  on  a  pianissimo  strain. 


e 


It 


is    a    peculiarly    ladylike    articulation.      Was    she 
d   bred    in    Ratborouirh,   I    wonder  ?      She 


bor 


n   an 


o"» 


never  speaks  while  we  are  singing.  Does  she  like 
music,  then  }  I  asked  her  once  ;  but  what  sort  of 
answer  is  **  Yes  "  to  such  a  question  .-*  And  that 
is  all  I  elicited. 

Music  again,  the  forenoon  occupation.  Miss 
Flora  does  not  like  being  criticised,  I  find.  One 
must  not  presume  to  set  her  right  in  the  smallest 
particular  ;  it  puts  her  in  a  pet.  She  laughed  it 
off,  but  I  saw  the  mounting  color  and  the  flashing 
glance.  I  think  she  need  not  take  offence  at  what 
was  intended  as  a  friendly  help.  I  am  no  flatterer, 
at  least.  Really,  I  am  hurt  that  I  might  not  take 
so  trifling  a  liberty  in  behalf  of  my  favorite  song. 


iq 


if 


i  I!'' 


:    I 


n 


!;! 


■P  ill  i 
■   '   I! 

1/     ^-((i! 


wt.   ■   I' 


f 


I  '11  walk  off  as  oftcMi  as  she  sings  it.  Can  her 
temper  be  perfectly  good  ?  Must  no  improvement 
be  ever  suggested  because  it  implies  imperfection  ? 
I  hope  none  of  my  friends  will  ever  be  on  such 
terms  with  mc/  If  I  am  touchy,  like  a  nettle,  may 
they  grasp  mc  hard,  and  fear  me  not. 

26///.  —  This  little  sheet  of  water  in  front  of  the 
house  has  the  greatest  variety  of  aspects  ;  its  face 
is  like  a  human  face,  full  of  varying  expressions. 
A  slight  haze  made  it  so  beautiful  just  before  sun- 
set, I  took  my  chair,  and  put  it  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  grass,  then  followed  it,  and  sat  with  it 
tipped  back  against  the  house,  close  by  the  win- 
dow of  one  of  those  mysterious  rooms  in  which 
Miss  Etty  immures  herself.  I  heard  the  Canary 
say  in  a  scolding  tone,  "  I  should  think  you 
might  oblige  me  ;  it  is  such  a  trifle  to  do,  it  is 
not  worth  refusing.  Why  should  you  care  for 
him  ? " 

No  answer,  though  i  confess  my  ears  were 
erected  to  the  sharpest  attitude  of  listening.  I 
was  wholly  oblivious  of  myself,  or  I  should  have 
taken  myself  away  as  in  honor  bound. 


wmmmmmmmm 


A'z-xs  r.icATio.y. 


129 


h. 


"Won't  you  now,  laiy  ?     1  '11  only  ask  for  one  of 
our  old  ducts  —  just  one  !" 

"  No,  Flora,"  said  Little  Ugly,  coldly  enough, 

"  Why  not  ?  "     No  answer. 

"To  be  sure,  /w  might  hear.  He  would  find  out 
that  you  are  musical.  What  of  that  .''  Where  is 
the  use  of  being  able  to  sing,  to  sing  only  whe 
there  is  nobody  to  listen  .'' " 


n 


<< 


I  sing  only  to  friends.  I  cannot  sing,  I  never 
have  sung,  to  persons  in  whom  I  have  no  con- 
fidence." 

"  Afraid  !  what  a  little  goose  !  " 

"  Not  afraid,  exactly." 

"  I  don't  comprehend,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  do  not  expect  you  should." 

"  I  never  did  understand  you." 

"  You  never  will."     Silence  again. 

Flora  tuned  up,  and  of  all  tunes,  she  must  needs 
hum  my  song.  I  was  on  my  feet  in  a  moment  to 
depart,  when  I  lieard  the  clear  tones  of  r>tty's 
voice  again,  and  stood  still  with  one  foot  advanced, 
ihould  si 


you 


"1^ 


■^*v;  33 


last  line. 


MS 


I 


I    m 


It' 


iu 


i 


il 


li! 


130 


A' EX'S  V.iCATIO.W 


Flora  murdered  it  again,  with  the  most  atro- 
cious, cold-blooded  cruelty.  I  almost  mocked  the 
sound  aloud  in  my  passion. 

**  I  do  not  mean  to  vex  you,  only  I  saw  that  Mr. 
Ratcliffe  —  " 

"You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  /lis  opin- 
ion. 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  like  it  if  I  told  you  of  a 
mistake.  But  I  supposed  you  would  rectif)-  it,  and 
I  should  have  done  you  a  service,  even  against  your 
will." 

"  And  I  to  hate  you  for  it,  eh  } " 

"  If  )ou  can." 

•'  Indeed  I  cannot,  Etty,  for  you  arc  my  best 
friend.  But  you  are  a  horrid,  truth-telling,  formi- 
dable body.  Why  not  let  me  sing  on  my  own 
way  }  I  don't  thank  you  a  bit.  I  had  rather  sing- 
it  wrong  than  be  corrected.  It  hurts  my  pride. 
I  think  people  should  take  my  music  as  they  find 
it.  One  note  wrong  can  surely  be  put  up  with  if 
the  rest  is  worth  hearing.  I  shall  continue  to  sing 
it  as  I  have  done,  I  think." 

••  No,  please  don't !  " 


"  If  I  will  mend  it  when  I  think  of  it,  will  you 
sing  a  duet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  though  it  will  cost  me  more  than  you  know." 

"  Poh  ! "  And  Flora  sang  the  song  without  ac- 
companiment. The  desired  sharp  rang  upon  my 
cars,  and  set  my  nerves  at  rest. 

''Bravo!  encore!"  I  cried  beneath  the  window, 
and  was  pelted  with  peach-stones.  I  wonder  when 
this  duet  is  to  come  off. 

2'jth.  —  Am  I  trilling,  or  am  I  in  earnest.''  In- 
deed I  don't  know.  I  am  constantly  at  the  side 
of  Little  Handsome  without  knowing  how  I  came 
there.  She  makes  me  sing  with  her,  ride  with  her, 
walk  with  her,  at  her  will  ;  and  as  if  that  was  not 
enough  for  one  day,  to  test  her  jiower  over  me, 
to-night  she  made  me  dance  with  her.  And  now 
I  feel  like  a  fool  as  I  think  of  laty  playing  a  waltz 
ft)r  us,  at  Mora's  request,  and  giving  me  a  long, 
serious  look  as  I  approached  the  piano  to  compli- 
ment her  playing.  I  could  not  utter  a  word.  I 
answered  her  gaze  with  one  as  sober,  and  more 
sad,  and  came  away  to  my  rooni,  to  ha\'e  some  talk 
with  mv  real  self.     >'')w  ft)r  it. 


^'i: 


!:;^ 


si  I, 


■If 
"'if' 


"■vy 


it.  'j 


mmm 


am 


mMam«m»iif^>-,»Mitm»ua,^nwn 


132 


A' EX'S    K'lCATION. 


Says  I  to  Myself,  "  A  truce  to  your  upbraidings, 
you  old  scold  ;  tell  me  at  once  how  you  find  your- 
self affected  towards  this  charminir  little  Flora." 

Says  JMyseli,  "  There  are  no  tastes  in  common 
between  her  and  me." 

Says  I,  quickly,  "  Music  ! "  and  triumphed  for  a 
moment  or  two.  But  the  snarling  old  fellow  asked 
whether  I  liked  her  singing  or  her  flattery  }  Vov 
his  part,  he  thought  we  both  liked  to  hear  our  own 
voices,  and  agreed  in  nothing  else.  Taste,  indeed  ! 
when  I  would  not  let  her  sing  a  song  I  cared  a 
fillip  for  ;  and  as  to  any  love  between  us,  I  was  not 
to  be  a  fop;  her  bright  glances  said  nothing  that 
they  had  not  said  to  the  author  of  "  Flora,  oh,  forget 
me  not,"  and  perhaiis  to  a  dozen  more. 

27///.  —  \  dull  day.  "You  are  as  sober  as  a 
judge,"  said  J'lora,  at  breakfast.  I  caught  I'Jty's 
eye,  but  it  said  nothing.     T'lora   has  revenged  her- 


,'lf 


sell  on   m 


e  as  she  meant  tt)  do.     She  lias  turned 

my   head  ;    made    me   act   like   a   simpleton.       But 

"Richard's  himself  again,"  and  wiser  than  he  was. 

P.  M.  -—  I   endeavored  to  talk  more  with   Miss 

Etty,  that  the  change  in  my  manner  might  be  less 


observed.  She  seemed  to  divine  my  objeet,  and 
snstained  the  dialogue.  I  never  knew  her  to  do  it 
before.  It  is  not  diffidence,  it  seems,  that  caused 
her  reserve.  Little  Ugly  and  I  actually  exchang- 
ing ideas  !  T  shall  call  her  Little  Ugly  still,  how- 
ever, for  I  could  not  make  her  look  at  me  as 
she  spoke,  nor  answer  my  wit  by  a  change  of 
countenance. 

2'!it/i.  —  Little  Hantlsome  cannot  be  convinced 
that  the  flirtation  is  over  —  absolutely  at  an  end. 
She  alternately  rails  at  my  capricious  solemnity, 
and  pretends  to  be  grieved  at  it.  I  can  sec  that 
nothing  but  the  avoidance  o(  a  tctc-a-tctc  is  my 
safety. 

The  maples  are  turning  red.  The  setting  sun 
threw  a  glorious  light  through  their  tinted  foliage, 
and  the  still  bosom  of  the  lake  reflected  it  in  a 
softened,  changeable  hue  of  crimson  and  silver. 
T'lora  was  standing  at  the  door.  I  somehow  found 
myself  there  also,  but  I  talked  over  my  shoulder 
to  Aunt  Tabitha  about  potatoes. 

"I  have  a  fancy  to  walk  round  the  pond,"  said 
Flora.     After  a  [)ause  she  looked  at  me,  as  much 


If 


. 


»  'i.. 


X^ 


'1^ 


li  i.,1 

III 

134 


leEX'S   V.i CATION. 


as  to  say,  "  Don't  you  sec,  you  monster,  it  is  too 
la'.e  lor  me  to  go  alone  ? " 

"  Miss  Flora,  I  will  second  your  wish  if  you  will 
drum  up  a  third  party,"  said  I,  point  blank. 

Flora  l)lujhed  and  pouted  for  a  moment,  then 
beckoned  to  Little  Ugly,  who  disobligingly  sug- 
gested that  the  grass  would  be  wet.  It  so  liap- 
pcned  thei  vns  no  dew,  and  Mora  convinced  her 
of  the  fact  b)  .»ning  in  the  grass,  and  then  pre- 
senting llie  sole  of  her  shoe  for  her  inspection. 
Miss  F.tt}',  her  ill-chosen  objection  being  van- 
quished, went  for  her  bonnet,  and  we  set  forth, 
Flora's  arm  in  mine  as  a  matter  of  court^e,  and 
Miss  Etty's  in  hers,  save  where  the  exigencies  of 
the  woodland  path  gave  her  an  excuse  to  drop 
behind.  A  little  boat  tied  to  a  stimip  suggested 
to  Flora  a  new  whim.  Instead  of  going  round  the 
pond,  which  I  now  began  to  like  doing,  I  must 
weary  myself  with  rowing  her  across.  I  was  ready 
enough  to  do  it,  however,  had  not  Miss  VA\y 
quietly  observed  that  the  pond  was  muddy,  and 
the    boat    unseaworthy.       Flora    would    not    have 

et  of  water  :    but  mud  !     She 


> 


ity 


sighed  and  resumed  niy  arm.  I,  offeri.iL;-  the  other 
to  Miss  luty  in  so  determined  a  way  that  she 
could  not  waive  accepting  it,  marched  forward  with 
spirits  rising  into  high  glee  and  loquacity.  Pres- 
ently, feeling  a  sudden  irritation  at  the  feathcr-likc 
lightness  with  which  Little  Ugly's  fingers  just 
touched  my  elbow,  I  caught  her  hand  and  drew  it 
through  my  arm,  and  when  I  relinquishetl  it, 
pressed  her  arm  to  my  side  with  mine,  thinking 
she  would  snatch  it  away  and  walk  alone  in  of- 
fended dignity.  Whether  she  was  too  really  digni- 
fied for  that,  or  took  my  rebuke  as  it  was  intended. 


I  k 


now  not ;  but  she  leaned  on  my  arm  with  some- 
what greater  confidence  during  the  remainder  of 
our  walk,  and  now  and  then  even  volunteered  a 
remark.  Before  we  finished  the  circumambulation 
of  the  pond,  she  had  quite  forgotten  her  sulky 
reserve,  and  talked  with  much  earnestness  and 
animation,  Flora  subsiding  into  a  listener  with 
a  willing  interest  which  raised  her  in  my  esti- 
mation. 

And  now  that  I  am  alone  in  my  room,  and  jour- 
nalizing, it  behooves  mc  to  gather  up  and  record 


k 


i     !| 


■I' 


::;i 


to 

Ik- 1; 


mm 


136 


REX'S   VACATION. 


some  of  those  words,  precious  from  their  rarity. 
Flora  and  I,  in  our  merry  notisense,  h'.id  a  mock 
dispute,  and  referred  the  matter  to  Fcty  for  arbi- 
tration. 

Little  Ugly  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  had 
not  heard  a  word  of  the  matter,  her  thouirhts  beinc: 
elsewhere  intently  engaged. 

"  I  must  request  you  to  excuse  my  inattention," 
she  said,  "and  repeat  what  you  were  saying." 

"The  latter  request  I  scorn  to  grant,"  said  I, 
•'  and  the  former  we  will  consider  about  when  we 
have  heard  what  thoughts  have  been  preferred  to 
our  most  edifying  conversation." 

'•  You  s/ia/l  tell  us,"  said  Flora.  "  Yes,  or  we  '11 
go  off  and  leave  you  to  your  meditations,  here  in 
the  dark  woods,  with  the  owls  and  the  bats,  whom 
you  probably  prefer  for  company."  Miss  I^tty 
condescended  to  confess  that  she  should  be  fright- 
ened without  my  manful  protection.  Quite  a 
triumph ! 

"I  must  thank  you,"  she  said,  "for  the  novelty 
of  an  evening  walk  in  the  woods.  I  enjoy  it,  I  con- 
fess, very  highly.     Look  at  those  dark,  mysterious 


REX'S    I'ACATIOX. 


137 


^ 


vistas,  and  those  dccpenini^  shadows  blending;  tlie 
bank  with  its  mirror  I  How  different  from  the 
trite  dayhght  truth  !  It  took  strong  hokl  of  my 
imaiifination."' 

•'Go  on.     And  so  you  were  thinking  —  " 

"  I  was  hardly  doing  so  much  as  thinking.  I 
was  seeiniT  it  to  remember." 

**  Etty  draws  like  an  artist,"  whispered  Flora. 

"  I  was  taking  a  mental  jdiotograph  of  my  com- 
panions by  twilight,  and  of  all  the  scene  round,  too, 
in  the  same  gray  tint,  just  to  look  at  some  ten  or 
fifteen  vears  hence,  when  —  " 


<( 


Let  us  all  three  airree,"  said   I.  "to  remember 


this  evening  on  the  28th  of  September,  18 — .  I 
am  sure  I  shall  look  back  to  it  with  pleasure." 

"Oh,  horrid!"  shrieked  Mora.  "  Hy  that  time 
you  will  be  a  shocking,  middle-aged  sort  of  person. 
r^ifteen  years!  dismal  thought  !  I  shall  have  out- 
lived everything  I  care  about  in  life!"  So  moaned 
Little  Handsome. 

"  But  you  may  have  found  new  sources  of  inter- 
est," said  I,  perhaps  a  little  too  tenderly;  for  I  had 
some  sympathy  with  her  dread  of  that  j)articular 


\  ;i 


ii 


!;* 


i 

1 

V 

1 

phase  of  existence,  middlc-agedness.  "  Perhaps  as 
mistress  of  a  household  —  " 

"Worse  and  worse!"  screamed  Flora.  "A  mis- 
erable comforter  you  are !  As  if  it  were  not 
enough  merely  to  grow  old,  but  one  must  be  a 
slave  and  a  martyr,  bound  forever  to  one  spot,  and 
one  perpetual  companion  —  " 

"Planning  dinners  every  day  for  cooks  hardly 
less  ignorant  than  yourself,"  added  I,  laughing  at 
her  selfish  horror  of  matronly  bondage,  yet  pro- 
voked at  it.  "  Miss  I*ltty,  would  you,  if  you  could, 
stand  still  instead  of  going  forward  ?  " 

"  My    happiness     is    altogether    different    from 


Fl 


ora's,"  she  replied,  "  though  we  were  brought  up 


side  by  side.  What  has  taught  me  to  be  inde- 
pendent of  the  world  and  its  notice,  was  my  being 
continually  compared  with  her,  and  told,  with  com- 
passionate  regret,   that    I   had 


n( 


ficat 


ions  w 


hich 


cou 


Id 


society 


one 
give  me  success 

—  "  I  be2:an. 


of  th 


e  q 


u 


ali- 


in  freneral 


'  Which  was  a  libel  — 

'  Without  the  last  syllable,"  said  Flora. 

'At  any  rate,  I  knew  I  was  plain  and  shy,  and 


REX'S   VACATION. 


139 


made  friends  slowly.  So  I  chose  such  i)leasurcs  as 
should  be  under  my  own  control,  and  could  never 
fail  me.  They  make  my  lite  so  much  lia[)pier  than 
it  was  ten  years  ago,  that  I  feel  certain  I  shall  have 
a  wider  and  fuller  enjoyment  of  the  same  ten  years 
hence." 

What  they  arc,  I  partly  guess,  and  partly  drew 
from  her  in  her  uncommonly  frank  mood.  I  begin 
to  perceive  that  I,  as  well  as  Mora,  have  been 
che.i.-hing  most  mistaken  and  unsatisfactory  aims. 
My  surly  old  inner  self  has  often  hinted  as  much, 
but  I  would  not  hear  him.  ICtty  may  have  her  mis- 
taken views  too,  but  she  has  set  me  thinking. 

Ktty,  your  voice  is  still  with  me,  clear,  sweet,  and 
penetrating,  as  it  was  when  }ou  talked  so  elo- 
quently to-night  in  our  dreamy  ramble.  What  if  I 
had  early  adopted  her  idea  that  with  every  conscious 
power  is  bound  up  both  the  duty  and  the  pleasure 
of  developing  it  }  Might  I  not  now  have  reached 
higher  ground,  with  health  both  of  body  and  mind  } 
Ambition  is  an  unhealthy  stimulus.  A  wretchedly 
uneasy  guest,  too,  in  the  breast  of  an  invalid.  I 
would  fain  have  a  purer  motive,  which  shall  dismiss 


-m. 


li 


IP 


!      !  ft  ? 


!!!' 


jl; 

«    I 


I'  *"      II 


or  control  it.  But  Etty  —  what  are  the  uses  to  be 
made  of  her  talents,  while  she  lives  thus  withdrawn 
into  a  world  of  her  own  ?  Certainly,  she  is  wrong. 
I  shall  convince  her  of  it  when  our  friendship,  now 
fairly  planted,  I  trust,  shall  have  taken  root. 

2gf/i.  —  Capricious  are  the  ways  of  womankind  ! 
Little  Ugly  is  more  thoroughly  undemonstrative 
than  ever.  I  did  but  leave  my  old  aunt  to  T'lora 
on  our  way  home  from  church,  and  step  back  to 
remark  that  the  sermon  was  dull  and  the  sinuinc: 
discordant.  Miss  luty  assented  very  coldly,  and 
presently  bolted  into  an  old  red  house,  and  left  me 
to  go  home  by  myself.  When  we  started  for  church 
again,  she  was  among  the  missing,  and  we  found 
her  in  the  pew  on  our  arrival.  Thus  pointedly  to 
avoid  me  !  It  might  be  accident,  however,  for  she 
did  not  refuse  to  sing  from  the  same  hvmn-book 
v/ith  me,  and  pointed  to  a  verse  on  the  oUier  page, 
quaint,  but  excellent.  After  all.  Watts  //^s  written 
the  best  hymns  in  the  language. 

Evening.  — Without  choice,  I  found  myself  walk- 
ing round  the  pond  again.  It  was  as  smooth  as 
glass,  and  the  leaves  scarcely  trembled  on  the  trees 


h^ 


i 

fi: 


.!! 


i>ti  ^: 


4r 

4i 


iCi  II 


♦iji 


i 

1      it 

'  1 

[ 

1 

! 

t 

.  \ 

1 

1 
I 

A'/:X'S   VACATION. 


loses  under  a  false  idea  that  it  is  a  luxury  to  sleep 
in  the  morning  !  How  often  I  "  eut  prayers  "  in  my 
lazy  Freshman  year !  Reelining  under  Farmer  Pud- 
dingstone's  elm,  and  looking  upon  the  glassy  pond 
in  which  the  glowing  sky  mirrored  itself,  my  soul 
was  fired  with  poetic  inspiration.  On  the  blank 
page  of  a  letter  I  wrote,  — 

Mow  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  morn, 

and  threw  down  my  paper,  being  suddenly  quenched 
by  sclf-ridiculc,  as  I  was  debating  whether  to  write 
"  To  I^tty"  over  the  top.  Returning  that  way  after 
a  ramble,  I  found  the  following  conclusion  pinnc' 
to  the  tree  by  a  jackknife  :  — 

How  holy  the  calm  in  tlie  stillness  of  morn, 
When  to  call   cm  to  l)reakfast  Josh  toots  on  the  horn  , 
The  ducks  gives  a  ciuack,  and  the  caow  gives  a  moo, 
And  the  children  chimes  in  with  their  plaintive  boo-hoo. 

How  holy  the  calm  in  the  stillness  of  neune. 
When  the  pot  is  a  siniiin'  its  silvery  teune,  — 
Its  soft,  woolly  teune,  jest  likv^  Aribi's  Darter, 
While  the  teakettle  plays  up  the  simperny  arter. 

How  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  night. 

When  the  moon,  like  a  punkin,  looks  yaller  and  bright  ; 


!!! 


A'/:x-s  I'.  I  CAT/ ox. 


M3 


While  the  aowls  and  the  katydids,  screeching;  hke  time, 
Jest  brings  me  up  close  to  the  eend  o'  my  rhyme.* 

Atul  underneath  was  addetl,  as  if  in  scorn  of  my 


fruitl 


ess  endeavor  :  — 


'  i 


"  I  wrote  that  one  ni;^ht  ofT,  as  fast  as  you  could 
shell  corn.  —  Salome  Puddin'ostom:." 

I  came  home  to  find  an  earthen  pitcher  in  my 
room,  with  dahHas  surroundini;  a  i^Iorioiis  sunflower. 
My  aunt's  doing  ;  and  its  homehness  pleases  me 
as  I  love  her  homely  sincerity  of  affection.  ICtty 
adorns  the  panor  with  wild  things,  —  the  bear-bind, 
the  ground-nut,  so  deliciously  scented,  the  golden- 
rod,  plumy  and  graceful,  etc.,  etc.  I  will  get  for  her 
some  of  the  clematis  I  saw  this  morning,  more 
beautiful  in  its  present  state  than  when  it  was  in 
fiower.  Etty  loves  wild-flowers  because  she  is  one 
herself,  and  prefers  to  hide  in  her  native  nook,  where 
no  eye  (I  might  except  my  own)  gives  her  more 
than  a  casual  glance. 

A'^oon.  —  •*  I  shall  think  it  quite  uncivil  of  Little 
Ugly  if  she  does  not  offer  to  arrange  my  share  of 


(. 


t  : 


(■  ' 


*  Written  by  Mrs.  Charles  Folsom. 


■«i 


I;    '. 


'0 


!l   i 


I!     I 


the  booty  I  am  brin£;ing,"  I  said  to  myself  as  1 
entered  the  house  by  the  kitchen  way,  and  deposited 
my  traihng  treasures  on  Norah's  table,  by  the  side 
of  a  yellow  squasli. 

'•  Do,  Fh)ra,  go  with  me  to  Captain  ]>lack's,"  said 
nttv's  voice  at  the  side  door.  "  The  old  folks  have 
not  seen  you  since  your  return." 

"  I  can't  ! "  said  Flora,  with  a  drawl. 

"  Wo.  coaxablc,  for  once  !  " 

"  It  only  makes  me  obstinate  to  coax.  Why  not 
go  without  me  }  " 

"  I  r.m  no  novelty.  Old  people  like  attention 
from  such  as  you,  because  —  " 

"  Because  it  is  unreasonable  to  expect  it.  It  is 
dusty.     My  gown  is  long." 

"  The  old  man  is  failing.  I  went  to  Rit  with  him 
yesterday,  but  found  Salome  there,  so  I  went  to 
church,  after  walking  in  the  graveyard  till  tlie  bell 
rang." 

"  Owl  that  you  arc  !  Your  meditations  must 
have  been  lively!  Go;  it's  of  no  use  waiting 
for  me." 

I  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  Ktty's  basket,  as  she 


A'/'X'S    VAC.l  riox 


HS 


ii 


■ 


put  herself  in  motion,  on  which  she  turned  round 
with  unfeigned  astonisliment.  "  May  I  not  be  a 
substitute  for  Flora  ?  " 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary  you  should  trouble  your- 
self," said  I'2tty,  shyly.  "  It  is  not  because  I  needed 
help  I  was  urging  Mora." 

*'  Is  it  not  the  old  red  house  with  the  roof  sloping 
almost  to  the  ground?"  said  I,  "and  shall  I  say 
ycfU  sent  it  ?     I  shall  go  in,  and  be  as  agiecable  as 

In 
can. 


Arc 


you 


reallv  in  earnest  ?  "  asked  lutv,  look- 


ing in  my  face  with  a  smile  of  wontler  that  made 
her  radiantly  beautiful.  She  tuinetl  away,  blush- 
ing at  my  surprised  and  eager  gaze,  and  joined  me 
without  a  word  of  answer  on  my  part.  It  was 
some  time  before  I  quite  recovered  from  a  strange 
Hurry  of  spirits,  which  made  my  heart  bump  very 
much  as  it  does  when  I  hear  unexi  ected  good 
news.  And  then  I  dashed  away  upon  the  subject 
of   okl  age,  or  anything  that  came   uppermost,  i 


n 


10 


pej 


o 


f  di 


rawuig    the  soul-lighted    eyes   to   nunc 


ted 


again,  with  that  transfiguring  siuile  U[)on  the  lips. 
Ikit  1  was  like  an  unskilful  ma;rician  ;  1  luul  lost 


Mi- 


Hi  il 

■( 


>'■!     11 


U 
41^ 


"  ■  --"^?W:<*»^!jiKS^iWi^^i.|  I w  It 


f  t\;\ 


■>m 


<i 


146 


AViX\S   VACATION. 


the  spell.  Ill  vain  I  said  to  myself,  '*  I  '11  make  her 
do  it  again  !  "  Little  Ugly  would  n't !  She  answered 
my  incoherent  sallies  in  her  usual  sedate  manner, 
and  I  believe  it  was  only  in  my  fancy  that  her 
cheek  dimpled  a  little  when  I  was  specially  elo- 
quent. 

Introduced  by  Miss  Etty,  I  was  \v\  aily  wel- 
comed. I  am  always  affected  by  the  sight  of  an 
aged  woman  who  at  all  reminds  me  of  the  grand- 
mother so  indulgent  to  my  prankful  boyhood.  The 
old  man,  too,  interested  me.  lie  related  his  ad- 
ventures at  sea  in  a  most  unhackneyed  style.  I  '11 
go  and  see  them  every  day.  One  anecdote  he 
told  was  good.  "An  old  salt,"  he  said —  Bah! 
what  was  it  1  How  very  lovely  Etty  looked,  sit- 
ting on  a  cricket  at  the  old  woman's  feet,  and,  with 
a  half-smile  on  her  face,  submitting  her  polished 
little  head  to  be  stroked  by  her  trembling  hands  ! 
This  I  saw  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye. 

\2  dc/oik.  —  The  night  is  beautiful,  and  it  is  a 
piece  of  self-denial  to  close  the  shuttc^-,  light  my 
lamp,  and  write  in  my  journal.  Peace  of  mind 
came  yesterday,  positive  happiness  to-day,  neither 


A'EX'S    VACATIOX. 


H7 


of  which  I  can  analyze.  I  only  know  I  Ikivc  not 
been  so  thoroughly  content  since  the  acquisition  of 
my  first  jackknife.  I  have  conqucreti  Ktty's  dis- 
trust ;  she  has  actually  promised  me  her  friend- 
ship. I  am  rather  surprised  that  I  am  so  enchanted 
at  this  triumph  over  a  prejudice.  I  am  hugely  de- 
lighted. Not  because  it  is  a  triumph,  however  ; 
vanity  has  naught  to  do  with  it.  It  is  a  wortnier 
feeling,  in  which  humility  mingles  with  a  more 
cordial  self-respect  than  I  have  hitherto  been  con- 


scious o 


f. 


How  came  it  all  about. -*  l?y  what  blessed  sun- 
beams can  the  ice  have  been  softened,  till  now,  as 
I  hope,  it  is  broken  up  forever.^  People  under  the 
same  roof  cannot  long  mistake  each  other,  it  seems, 
else  b^tty  and  I  should  never  have  become  friends. 

As  we  left  the  door  of  Captain  Black's  house, 
and  turned  into  the  field  path  to  avoid  the  dust, 
Etty  said,  '•  I  do  not  know  whether  you  care  much 
about  it,  but  you  have  given  pleasure  to  these  good 
old  people,  who  have  but  little  variety  in  their  daily 
routine,  being  poor  and  infirm  and  lonely.  It  is 
really  a  duty  to  cheer  them  up  if  we  can." 


:'  \\ 


I 


Si 


h 

km 

^M  hi 


,l,<<"^ 


mai'P.m  PVww»*-'  mfmMmmwMliMi  W.b WwfaWiw'iX.rji^iWiii^i^ 


!  Ji 


') 


148 


av:a's  vacation. 


I  felt  that  it  warmed  my  heart  to  have  shared 
that  duty  with  her,  and  I  said  so.  I  thought  she 
looked  doubtful  and  surprised.  It  was  a  good 
opening  for  egotism,  and  I  improved  it.  I  saw 
that  she  was  no  uninterested  listener,  but  all  along 
rather  suspicious  and  incredulous,  as  if  what  I  was 
claiming  for  myself  was  inconsistent  with  her  pre- 
vious notions  of  my  disposition.  I  believe  I  had 
made  some  little  impression  Saturday  night,  but 
her  old  distrust  had  come  back  by  Sunday  morn- 
incr.     Now  she  was  acrain  shaken. 

y\t  last,  looking  up  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
taken  a  mighty  resolve,  she  said,  "  I  presume  such 
a  keen  observer  as  yourself  must  have  noticed  that 
the  most  reserved  people  are,  on  some  occasions, 
the  most  frank  and  direct.  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
that- 1  feel  some  apology  due  to  you,  if  my  first  im- 
pressions of  your  character  are  really  incorrect.  I 
am  puzzled  what  to  think." 

"  I  am  to  suppose  that  your  first  impressions 
were  not  so  favorable  as  those  of  Mrs.  Black,  whom 
I  heard  remark  that  I  was  an  amiable  youth,  with 
an  uncommonly  pleasant  smile." 


A' EX'S   VACATlO.y. 


149 


"  Just  the  opposite,  in  fact  —  pardon  me  !  To 
my  eye,  you  had  a  mocking,  ironical  cast  of  counte- 
nance.    I    felt  sure  at  once  you  were  the  sort   of 


pe 


rson 


I    never  could   make   a   friend  of,  au'l   ac- 


quaintances I  leave  to  Flora,  who  wants  to  know 
everybody.  I  thought  the  less  I  had  to  do  with 
you  the  better." 


I  felt  hurt,  and  almost  insulted.     I  had  not  bee 


n 


mistaken  ;  she  had  disliked  me,  and  perhaps  dis- 
liked me  yet.  '*  It  was  not  that  I  stood  in  fear  of 
your  satire,"  she  continued.  "  I  am  indifferent  to 
ridicule  and  censure  in  general  ;  no  one  but  a 
friend  has  power  to  wound  me." 

A  flattering  emphasis,  truly  !  I  felt  my  temper 
stirred  a  little  by  Miss  Tatty's  frankness.  I  was 
sulkily  silent.  She  went  on  :  "  I  had  no  claim  to 
any  forbearance,  any  consideration  of  any  sort.  I 
am  perfectly  resigned  to  being  the  theme  of  your 
wit  in  any  circle,  if  you  can  find  aught  in  my 
country  bred  ways  to  amuse  you." 

Zounds  !   I  must  speak. 

"  My  conduct  to  Flora  must  have  confirmed  the 
charming  impression  produced  by  my  unlucky  phiz, 


i'li 

i 


M 


i  PH 


'  i* 


i  1(1 

I        y. 


.it       ! 


i 


I** ' 

Ik. 

150 


AV:.v\v  r.tcjT/o.v. 


I  ima<;inc.  Ikit  don't  l)car  malice  aj^ainst  me  in 
/uT  behalf  ;  you  must  have  seen  she  was  perfectly 
able  to  reveniie  herself." 

ICtty's  li^L;iit-hearted  lau^i;h  rang  out,  and  reminded 
me  of  my  once  baffled  curiosity  when  it  reached 
my  ear  from  Norah's  domain.  ]h\i  though  this 
unsuppressed  mirth  of  hers  revealed  the  i)rettiest 
row  of  teeth  in  the  world,  and  made  the  whole  face 
decidedly  beautiful,  somehow  or  other  it  gave  me 
no  pleasure,  but  rather  a  feeling  of  depression. 
My  joining  in  it  was  pure  pretence.  Presently  the 
brightness  faded,  and  I  found  myself  gazing  at  the 
cold  countenance  of  Little  Ugly  again. 

"  No,  I  did  not  refer  to  Flora,"  said  she.  *'  As 
you  say,  she  can  ax'cnge  her  own  quarrel,  and  we 
both  were  quite  as  ready  to  laugh  at  you  as  you 
could  be  to  laugh  at  us,  I  assure  you." 

*'  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  with  some  pique. 

"  But  what  I  can't  forgive  you,  cannot  think  of 
with  any  toleration,  is  —  " 

•*  What .''  "  cried  I,  astonished. 

"  A  man  of  any  right  feeling  at  all  could  not 
make  game  of  an  aged  woman  — his  own  relative  — 


/^EX's  r.ic.ir/o.v. 


151 


at  the  same  time  that  lie  was  receiving  her  hearty 
and  affectionate  hospitahty." 

"  Neither  have  I  done  so,"  cried  I,  in  a  towering 
passion.  "  You  do  me  great  wrong  in  accusing  me 
of  it.  I  would  knock  any  man  down  who  should 
treat  my  aunt  with  any  disrespect.  And  if  I  have 
sometimes  allowed  Mora  to  do  it  unrebuketl,  yt)u 
well  know  that  she  might  once  have  jjulled  my 
hair  or  cuffed  my  ears,  and  I  should  have  thought 
it  a  becoming  thing  for  a  young  lady  to  do.  I 
respond  to  my  aunt's  love  for  me  with  sincere 
gratitude,  and  the  sister  of  my  grandmother  shall 
never  want  any  attention  that  an  own  grandson 
could  render,  while  I  live.  I  shall  find  it  luutl  to 
forgive  you  this  accusation,  Miss  l-^tty,"  I  said, 
haughtily,  and  shut  my  mouth  as  if  I  would  ne\er 
speak  to  her  again. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  looked  up  itito  my  face 


with   one  of  those  wondrt)Us   smil 


es. 


It 


went    as 


straight  to  my  heart  as  a  pistol  bullet  could  do,  my 
high  indignation  proving  no  delcnce  against  it.  1 
was  instantly  vanquished,  and  as  I  heartily  shook 
the  hand  she  held  out  to  me,  I   was  just  able  to 


H;  I 


ii 


I 

m 


III; 


M 

■W*  i 


■  :■{ 

'  i'. 

If, 


;  11 


m 


i 


u 


\m 


V 


]  I 


^1 ' 

1 

1 

'  ! 

' 

1 

: 

1 

i! 

i 

m^.. 

i'.          :  .< 

refrain  from  pressing  it  to  my  lips,  which,  now  I 
think  of  it,  would  have  been  an  absurd  thinir  for 
me  to  do.  I  wonder  what  could  have  made  me 
think  of  doing  it ! 

/l//iT  Dinner,  —  I  hear  Flora's  musical  laugh  in 
the  mysterious  boudoir,  and  a  low,  congratulatory 
little  murmur  of  good  humor  on  Etty's  part.  I 
believe  she  is  afraid  to  laugh  loud,  lest  I  should 
hear  her  do  it  and  rush  to  the  spot.  The  door  is 
ajar  ;  I  '11  storm  the  castle. 

Flora  admitted  me  with  a  shout  of  welcome  the 
instant  I  tapped.  Etty  pushed  a  rocking-chair 
towards  me,  but  said  nothing.  The  little  room 
was  almost  lined  with  books.  Drawings,  paint- 
ings, shells,  corals,  and  in  a  sunny  window,  plants, 
met  my  exploring  gaze. 

"  This  is  the  pleasantest  nook  in  the  house.  It 
is  a  shame  you  have  not  been  let  in  before,"  said 
Flora,  zealously.     "  You  shall  see  l-^tty's  drawings." 

Neither  of  us  opened  the  portfolio  she  seized, 
however,  but  watched  l">tty's  eyes.  They  were 
cast  down  with  a  dilTident  blush  which  gave  me 
pain  ;  I  was  indeed  an  intruder.     She  gave  us  the 


/HEX'S    I'ACATIOX. 


53 


1 


t 


permission  we  waited  for,  however.  There  were 
many  good  copies  of  lessons ;  those  I  did  not 
dwell  upon.  But  the  sketches,  spirited  though 
imperfect,  I  studied  as  if  they  had  been  those  of 
an  Allston.  I'^tty  was  evidently  in  a  fidget  at  this 
preference  for  the  smallest  line  of  original  talent 
over  the  corrected  performances  that  aro  like  those 
of  every  one  else.  I  drew  out  a  full-length  figure 
done  in  black  chalk  on  brown  ];)ai)er.  It  chained 
Flora's  wandering  attention  as  quite  new.  It  was 
a  young  man  with  his  chair  tipped  back  ;  his  feet 
rested  on  a  table,  with  a  slipper  perched  on  each 
toe.  Mis  hands  were  clasped  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  The  face — really,  I  was  angry  at  the  dia- 
bolical expression  given  it  by  eyes  looking  askance, 
and  lips  pressed  into  an  arch  by  a  contemptuous 
smile.  It  was  a  corner  of  this  very  brown  sheet 
that  I  saw  under  her  arm  when  she  vanished  from 
the  kitchen  as  I  entered  ;  the  vociferous  mirth  that 
attracted  me  was  at  my  expense.  Ik'forc  Flora 
could  recognize  my  portrait.  Little  Ugly  i){)unced 
upon  it  ;  it  fell  in  a  crumpled  lump  into  the  bright 
little  wood  fire,  and  ceased  to  exist. 


ii,l 


m 


t     -') 


-i 


r  .' 


W 


"  I  had  totally  forgotten  it,"  she  said,  with  a 
blush  that  avenged  my  wounded  self-love.  Ironi- 
cal pleasure  at  having  been  the  subject  of  her 
pencil  I  could  not  indulge  myself  in  expressing,  as 
I  did  not  care  to  eulighten  Little  Handsome.  Any 
lurking  pique  was  banished  when  luty  showed  me, 
with  a  smile,  the  twilight  view  by  the  pond. 

"Do  you  draw  .?  "  she  asked,  and  Flora  cried. — 

"He  makes  caricatures  of  his  friends  with  pen 
and  ink  ;  let  him  deny  it  if  he  can." 

I  was  silenl. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Flora  and  I  had  just  returned  from  a  walk  around 
the  pond,  and  were  chatting  with  Ftty  at  the  door 
about  the  fun  v/e  lioped  to  have  at  Farmer  Pud- 
dingstone's  husking,  when,  as  I  was  enlarging  on 
the  romantic  and  picturesque  element  I  hoped  to 
find  at  the  rustic  festival,  who  should  appear  but 
a  friend  of  mine  from  Cambridge,  that  ubiquitous 

S ,  bringing  messages  for  me  from  the  P.  &  S. 

Club,  and  he  was  invited  by  Etty  to  go  with  us. 
He  is  one  of  those  sunny,  genial  fellows  one  envies 
as  being  everywhere  welcome. 


A'/:-.V.S-    r.lC.iTKW. 


:>:> 


•  1 


Oct.  30.  —  I   liopc  my  dear  fiicnd  of  tlic  P.  ^S:  S. 
will  not  be  too  late  for  the  train  ;  it  would  be  .sv/r/- 


an    inconvenience  for  bini  !      Hark!    th 


e   w 


bistl 


e 


Can  he  have  i;ot  there  ?     Mcjra  will  not  miss  him  ; 
she  prefers   Dr.   Saireen's  wise  conversation.      He 


(r 


as  well  as  I  had  to  give  place  to  a  jovial  youn 
Divinity  student,  who  knew  the  way  to  make  ICtty 
talk.  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  should  write  to 
her ;  he  is  to  lend  her  some  books,  I  hear. 

At  breakfast  Flora  said,  "  You  were  out  of  humor 
last  night,  because  you  were  laughed  at  when  you 
slipped  down  in  the  dance  on  the  slippery  barn 
floor." 

"  No   such   thing  !  "   I  said,  starting  and  spilling 
coffee. 

"Never  tell  fibs!"  insisted  Miss  Impertinence 
holding  up  her  finger. 

I  was  disdainfully  silent.  Etty  laughed  till  her 
very  temples  reddened.  A  man  who  could  not 
put  up  with  a  trifle  like  that  should  be  sent  home 
to  his  mother,  if  l\e  was  so  fortunate  as   to  have 


my 


one. 


With  a  half- roguish  gravity,  Etty  asked  me  if  I 


<-  11 


,  ■  I 


V    1 


Ul 


1    y 


m  \i  I 


156 


A'EX-S   VACAT/O.V. 


was  cross  the  night  before  because  she  had  dis- 
I)lcased  me.  Flora  Hftcd  her  eyebrows,  and  Aunt 
Tabilha  opened  her  eyes  wide.  I  quitted  the  table, 
after  muttering  an  insincere  disclaimer.  Mis- 
chievous as  monkeys  are  girls,  without  exception. 
But  Little  Ugly  docs  not  get  off  so  ! 

•  •  *  •  • 

No,  indeed  !  I  met  her  in  a  narrow  entry  with 
a  brush  in  one  hand  and  a  dustpan  in  the  other, 
and  barred  her  way,  saying,  "  A  word  with  you,  if 
you  please." 

"Well.-*"  said  she,  coldly,  the  color  mounting  to 
her  forehead. 

"  You  were  shrewd  enough  to  perceive  that  I 
was  vexed  to  see  you  so  chatty  with  a  total  stran- 
ger, when  to  me,  who  have  been  at  the  same  board 
with  you  these  six  weeks  past  —  " 

"  You  know  you  neglected  him,"  she  said,  step- 
ping back  somewhat  haughtily  ;  "  but  your  neglect 
of  your  visitor  was  my  gain.  I  liked  your  friend 
very  much  indeed." 

"I  thought  so;  no  one  could  doubt  it,"  sa 
bitterly. 


!i        In 


!ft 


A'i;.\"s  r,\c.tri(\\\ 


One  is  not  afraid  oi  hiui.     One  sees  in  his  face 


his  goodness  of  heart."     Then  she  tried  to  esca 
and  signally  failed. 


pe, 


(( 


sai( 


Etty,  I  ('O  not  believe  you  are  afraid  of  me,"  I 
.     "  I  should  be  both  flattered  and  mortified  if 
I  did." 

"  I  do  not  stand  in  awe  of  your  intellect,  nor  of 
your  superior  knowledge,  nor  am  I  daunted  by 
your  frowns,  not  a  whit !  "  And  then  she  began 
to  laugh,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  sweep  her 
carpet.  Flora's  voice  was  heard  approaching, 
reading  aloud  Salome's  doggerel  verses  about  the 
husking. 


&&' 


'  Miss  Ethclind 
She  's  my  best  frind, 
A  fixini;  the  posies, 
A  counting  the  noses, 
And  s(  .ting  all  straight, 
Cup,  platter,  and  plate  ; 
Tripping  round  light, 
Like  fairies  at  night, 
While  I  'niongst  the  kittles 
Am  fixing  the  vittles,"'  etc.,  etc. 


"  Oh,  did  you  see  the  china  punch-bowl  heaped 


1       i  : 

1       ( 
1 

,.i''T-i^v;"''^v>' 


■u'-}''ri!^TJlmfvr^^Uf?^h''K^:^>v^-^-^-'^\'s^^^^  ^.-siir^S-;  .■Ai-is^sf-^.iiMJ^w* 


158 


A' EX'S   I'ACATIO^V. 


with  baked  beans,  the  pork  brooding  on  top  ? 
Were  you  not  tickled  to  see  the  loaf  of  brown- 
bread  dressed  with  flowers  ?  '  said  Flora. 

^"  Ethdind  ?  I  have  always  thought  her  name 
was  Mehitable,"  I  said  ;  and  a  merry  clang  of  the 
dustpan  and  brush  made  answer  in  the  distance. 

•  •  •  •  • 

I  seem  bewitched  to  ruin  myself  with  ICtty  ;  and 
my  desire  to  be  esteemed  by  her  increases  as  my 
hopes  diminish.  Jealousy  and  ill-temper .''  Yes  ; 
and  how  do  they  look  through  the  green  spectacles 
of  an  original  prejudice  } 

•  •  ■  •  • 

Aunt  Tabitha  sends  a  small  cherub  to  call  me 
to  tea.  lie  spanks  my  door  with  his  fat  hand. 
"Come  in,  you  pretty  little  dog!  Who  are  you.-* 
IJtlle  boys  should  speak  when  spoken  to.  Have 
you  swallowed  your  tongue }  and  do  you  put  your 
finger  in  your  mouth  in  search  of  it  .'*  Here,  jump 
upon  my  knee!  Up!  you  almost  went  over  my 
head  !  Not  a  word.'*  I*ut  your  hand  in  my  pocket. 
Penknife,  pencil,  toothpick,  a  bright  half-dime, — 


sp«, 


eak  and  vou  shall  have  it.     What  is  your  name } 


>' 


y 


/^!EX'S    r.  I  CAT/OX. 


159 


—  Adolphuth  Thairccn.  —  Oh,  all  powerful  lucre! 
it  makes  the  dumb  speak.  —  Ith  Mith  J'lint  }'()u' 
gramma?  —  The  onXy gramnin  I  ha\'e  is  the  Latin 
grammar.  —  Come,  leth  go  thee  JCtty,  I  love  Ktty. 


Don't  you?  —  Rather  a  close  (jueslion,  young  man, 
ha,  ha!  I  cannot  answer  it  at  present,  at  least  till 
I  am  better  appreciated  myself.  Roost  on  my 
shoulder.  Hold  on  !  Not  by  my  hair,  though. 
Here  we  go.  Don't  bump  your  head,  or  if  you  do, 
don't  bawl,  there  's  a  hero  !  " 

I'Ltty's  smile  greeted  us ;  did  it  belong  only  to 
the  cherub  ?  The  young  rascal  refused  to  come 
down  from  his  perch,  and  made  me  his  steed  all 
about  the  house.  I  threw  him  at  last,  and  he  fell 
into  the  lap  of  Flora.  She  was  in  a  fidget  lest  he 
should  tumble  her  dress,  I  saw  ;  but  she  kissed 
him,  her  eye  wandering  the  while  to  the  inattenti\'e 
papa,  who  was  lecturing  on  spectacles.  The  ur- 
chin, indifferent  to  her  caresses,  ran  to  slide  his 
small  fist  into  Ii^tty's  hand.  Aunt  Tabitha  winked 
at  me.  I  stared  as'  if  I  did  not  take  her  meaning. 
If  the  young  person  elects  to  become  a  stepmother 
I  would  not  wish  to  interfere.     Really  I  do  not  sec 


:t    1 


I 


i6o 


AV:X\S    J'.lC.'lT/ChV. 


».i 


hi 

Hi)  ! 


i: 


1 

"J  1 


l:i  i 


ill 


much  clancrcr  of  it  as  lon^r  as  lie  talks  of  cornea  and 
sclerotica  with  her  dovclike  eyes  fi.xcd  upon  his 
face.  Dovclike!  pshaw!  A  complimentary  adjec- 
tive truly  ;  doves  happen  to  have  red  eyes,  so  far 
as  I  know. 

What  induces  a  man  of  Dr.  Sairecn's  eminence 
to  choose  Ratborough  for  his  residence }  His 
haughty  mother  regrets  Boston.  Sentimental  at- 
tachment to  the  house  he  went  to  live  in  with  his 
first  spouse  }  Charming  place  !  depot  on  one  side, 
nail-factory  behind,  and  — 

What  can  ICtty  be  writing  so  much  .'  Docs  she 
send  contributions  to  the  P.  &  S.,  I  wonder .''  I  '11 
ask  my  late  visitor  about  the  translation  from  Ovid 
in  the  last  number  of  the  Letter-clip.  I  have  no 
means  of  judging  whether  she  could  have  done  the 
graceful  thing;  but  she  certainly  wrote  to  him,  to 
thank  him  for  the  books  i)erhaps. 

I  would  give  all  my  morning  nai)S  and  my  nod- 
dings  after  dinner  or  in  the  pew  at  church,  to  know 
whether  I  really  did  see  tears  in  Etty's  eyes  just 
now  when  I  obstructed  her  escape  from  the  room. 
Aunt  Tabitha  had  told  Flora  not  to  set  her  cap  at 


wn.% 


tk^^ 


the  widower;  she  might  beat  the  hush,  but  ICtty 
W(Hil(l  catch  the  birch  Flora  iiouted  ;  I  doi^gcdly 
stood  in  the  doorway  till  Juty's  color  rose,  and  then 
I  sprani;  aside  with  an  affected  apolo<j;y. 


:!l 


If 


Almost  November,  is  it  ?  I  am  tired  of  biting 
my  nails  in  indolence.  I  had  rather  work  myself 
into  a  brain  fever.  Little  Handsome  beckons  me 
out  for  a  walk.  At  tlie  [)ath  round  tlie  pond  I 
turned  in. 

"  I  hate  walking  among  fallen  leaves,"  objected 
Mora. 

"  Let  us  call  on  the  lilacks." 

"  Certainly  not ;  I  carried  a  jelly  there  not  a 
week  ago." 

Next  I  came  to  a  cart-track  over  a  liill.  "  No 
leaves  here,  and  a  view  of  the  pond  to  be  had." 

•'I  see  the  pond  enougli  at  home,"  said  I'^lora. 

A  drove  of  cattle  came  at  us,  lowing  and  kicking 
up  a  dust.  "  Let  us  turn  into  the  held,"  said  I, 
taking  a  bar  down. 

"Pshaw!  who's  afraid  .-^ "  said  my  fair  com- 
panion, running  U[)  the  steps  of  a  house,  however. 


i 


'    t 
I    I 


i  r; 


: 


')■ 


•'11, 


V' 


t: 


162 


I^^EX'S  VACATION. 


i 


We  came  to  tlic  car  station.  "  Do  you  expect 
any  one,  that  you  take  so  disagreeable  a  direction 
for  your  promenade  ?  "  said  I. 

"No  ;  I  like  to  see  cars  come  in." 

Coming  to  Dr.  Saireen's  office,  Flora  peeped  in 
at  the  window.  "  I  guess  they  are  at  tea,"  she 
remarked.  But  no  ;  the  Doctor  emerged  with  his 
boy  and  joined  us.  I  resorted  to  the  post-office, 
and  went  home  laughing,  yet  provoked. 

A\n'.  1st.  —  If  I  have  the  blues,  I  am  not  alone  in 
the  mood.  Ktty  has  not  smiled  to-day.  For  my 
part,  I  rather  enjoy  being  miserable.  I  have  a 
relish  for  wretchedness.  I  hug  my  blue  devils. 
What  truly  torments  me  is  curiosity.  Could  I 
stoop  to  interrogate  Flora.-*  Iktter  go  directly  to 
Ethelind,  and  ask  what  preys  on  her  mind.  I 
could  not  pry  into  her  thoughts  in  any  underhand 
way,  even  to  know  whether  I  could  be  useful. 

2</.  —  I  should  certainly  suppose  there  were 
half  a  dozen  Dr.  Saireens.  I  never  look  up  but 
he  is  coming  in  at  the  gate  or  going  out  of  it. 
There  was  smirking  at  breakfast  over  some  nice 
white  honeycomb  ;    I   conclude  he  sent   it  to  7;iy 


aunt.  The  tables  groan  under  the  weight  of  l)ooks 
with  his  name  stamped  on  the  fly-leaf.  lie  po- 
litely offered  me  the  use  of  a  saddle-horse,  which 
I  as  urbanely  refused.  Flora  goes  to  ride  with 
him  ;  never  Etty.     I  wonder  why  ? 

P.  M.  —  Dr.  Saircen  has  been  here  in  Tatty's 
boudoir  the  livelonLr  afternoon.  His  horse  is 
stamping  at  the  gate.  Hollo!  the  kicking  beast 
forgot  to  leave  himself  a  leg  to  stand  upon,  and  he 
is  down.  Shall  I  go  and  help  the  old  gentleman 
to  get  him  up  } 

Really,  he  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  come  to 
knock  the  beast  on  the  heatl.  I  helped  him,  how- 
ever, in  a  gentlemanly  manner  ;  and  he  snatched 
the  rein  from  my  hand,  and  leaped  into  the 
chaise  without  a  word.     He  did  vouchsafe  a  cold 


bow  in  departing.     It  was  provoking,  no  ciou,^., 


epaning.  ii  was  provoKing,  no  doubt,  to 
have  an  interesting  conversation  (as  I  conclude 
from  its  length  it  must  have  been)  cut  short. 

I  have  been  to  meet  l^'lora  on  her  return  from 
the  village  fair.  She  is  very  certain,  she  says,  that 
the  Doctor  and,  I*!tty  are  going  to  be  engaged.  It 
must  be  so.     She  has  wo  positive  knowledge  ;  Ktty 


I  fi 


!;ii 


if- 


r  3 


mi 


p.      !■ 


164 


REX'S   J \ WAT/OAT. 


will  only  allow  that  the  boy  is  to  be  left  in  her 
charge  while  the  father  goes  abroad,  intending  to 
examine  a  new  disease  of  the  eyes  that  has  ap- 
peared somewhere.  She  says  I'Ltty  went  to  St. 
Augustine  with  his  wife,  who  died  on  the  way 
home,  bequeathing  to  her  friend  her  husband  and 
child.  An  odd  legacy!  And  it  seems  it  has  taken 
Etty  three  years  to  make  up  her  mind  to  accept  it. 

I2t/i. —  I  ought  to  return  to  college;  but  I 
cannot  rouse  any  interest  in  my  future  career. 
Life  is  a  wearisome  job.  I  intend  to  be  a  useful 
man,  however.     That  is  all  that  is  left  for  me. 

15///.  —  Etty  has  recovered  her  cheerfulness  sur- 
prisingly. I  hear  the  usual  undertoned  music  as 
she  sits  at  her  work  ;  the  light  beat  of  her  foot 
on  the  stairs  has  a  playful  sound,  and  just  now  I 
saw  her  dance  on  the  landing-place  as  she  turned 
round  the  banister.  I  try  to  rejoice  that  her  spirits 
are  so  exuberant.     May  she  be  happy ! 

20///.  —  I  went  to  bid  good-by  to  my  good  old 
Blacks,  and  get  a  peep  at  their  wood-pile,  fearing 
they  were  not  well  provided  for  the  winter.  With 
what  disgust  I  endured  their  raptures  upon  Etty's 


A'/:A"5   VACATIOX. 


i6; 


IS 


prospects  !  Etty  rejects  congratulations,  but  gives 
no  definite  denial  of  an  engagement.  Aunty  tells 
peo[)le  who  come  on  pumping  errands  "  not  to  coii- 
sani  theirselves.  At  present  't  an't  nobody's  busi- 
ness, and  that 's  enough  for  curiosity."  Flora  is 
gone  to  l^oston.  I  am  glad  not  to  hear  her  prate 
about  it. 

22^/.  —  I'^ttv  is  not  afraid  of  me  now.  She  is 
ready  for  conversation,  but,  oddly  enough,  will  not 
speak  first.  I  do  not  trouble  her  much.  I  am  not 
inspired  with  the  desire  to  be  agreeable,  looking 
upon  her  as  the  future  Mrs.  Saireen.  liih !  it 
changes  my  whole  idea  of  her  character  and  feel- 
ings.    But  let  me  be  reasonable. 

I  shall  lend  five  dollars  to  the  poor  Irish  cobbler 
to  buy  leather.  A  loan  is  a  gift  in  such  cases,  but 
less  humbling.  His  little  Kathleen  comes  to  Etty 
every  day  to  be  taught  to  sew.  At  ten  years  old, 
her  father's  only  housekeeper  ;  the  look  of  prema- 
ture care  on  the  child-face  is  unpleasant.  I  hear 
her  voice  in  Etty's  room  ;  I  will  push  open  the 
door  by  and  by,  and  ask  for  a  book. 


W    I 


'•'a 


k  \l 


H 


P 


iJi 


m 


i  )  •>     i 


1 

i  i 

r  L 

1 

li 

"  Is  this  pencil  mark  in  the  margin  a  token  of 
approbation  ? "  I  inquired,  taking  up  a  red-edged 
volume. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  a  passage  that  proved  too 
hard  even  for  my  intrepid  guessing.  Comfort  me 
by  agreeing  that  nobody  could  turn  that  paragraph 
into  English  sense." 

I  took  the  dictionary  and  Etty  a  pencil,  but 
Kathleen  had  her  share  of  attention. 

"  Thank  you,  that  seems  clearer  ;  I  have  it 
written.  —  Katty,  don't  draw  your  thread  so  tight. — 
Faust  speaks  here.  —  You  should  not  pile  your 
stitches.  —  For  this  phrase,  what .'  I  believe  you 
arc  wrong.  —  Katty,  Katty,  pick  that  out  at  once, 
it  is  all  askew.  —  Oh,  now  I  see!  please  find  that 
one  word  more.  —  Match  the  stripe,  child!  —  A  bold 
periphrasis,  don't  you  think  }  Write  it  out  for  me, 
will  you  .'* " 

Etty  laughed  at  my  work,  but  adopted  it.  I 
shall  send  for  a  translation.  She  may  reject  the 
help  of  a  />o//j',  but  has  not  refused  the  aid  of 
a  donkey,  certainly.  "  Who  was  your  German 
teacher } "  I  inquired. 


!i 


A'I-X\S   VAC. IT  10 X. 


167 


"  Dr.  Sairccn." 

I  had  quite  forg(jtten  the  stupid  old  fellow. 

2^.(1.  —  Little  Ugly  torments  me  atrociously.     It 


)f 


IS  01  no  av 


ail  f 


or  me  to  ami  at  reserve  ;  s 


he  plays 

upon  me  now  to  a  merry,  now  to  a  serious,  tune,  as 
if  I  were  no  better  than  a  hurdv-irurdv. 

Provoked  to  some  satirical  remark  on  coquetry, 
I  am  coolly  desired  not  to  resume  my  old  sarcastic 
ways. 

24///.  —  I  cannot  approve  this  engaged  }'oung 
lady's  readiness  to  road  German  and  to  sing  duets 
with  me  hour  after  hour.  I  ought  not  to  ask  what 
she  should  avoid,  to  be  sure,  and  I  am  to  blame. 
I  am  afraid  she  sinks  in  my  esteem  with  every  one 
of  those  half-roguish,  half-serious  smiles,  so  timid, 
yet  so  encouraging.  I  cannot  resist  the  fascina- 
tion, while  I  despise  it. 

I  talk  to  Etty  about  witches,  sirens,  imps  of  mis- 
chief, and  scowl,  I  suppose.  To-day  she  bit  her 
lips,  perhaps  to  keep  from  smiling,  and  asked  if  I 
was  afraid  of  being  too  amiable.  I  answered 
"  Yes,"  like  an  honest  man.  She  said  such  an 
apprehension  was  honorable,  and  presently  com- 


m 

i     i  8 


If 


J 

! 


f 


m 

P'*'. 

r 

If 

rl 

1 68 


A- EX'S  VACATIOX. 


poscdly  assured  me  it  was  quite  superfluous  after 
my  early  mauifestation  of  inconstaucy.  This  sjiir- 
ited  speeeli  gave  me  a  sense  of  freedom.  Ah,  Lit- 
tle Ugly,  we  shall  see  who  is  inconstant  !  That 
hint  might  have  been  spared  ! 

Letters  from  l^oston.  Flora  says  the  Doctor's 
being  there  is  convenient  ;  he  is  very  attentive  to 
her.  "Are  you  not  jealous  ?  "  Tasked.  Etty  an- 
swered simply  "  No."  What  am  I  to  think  of  her 
proposing  that  we  shall  be  fellow-students  in  Ger- 
man now  my  translation  has  come.  Take  care, 
Miss  Etty !  it  is  rash  for  you  as  well  as  for  me, 
this  reading  sentiment  from  the  same  page,  and 
•wondering  what  has  come  over  the  sun,  when  he 
is  only  dipping  himself  in  the  pond  at  the  proper 
time.  It  is  hard  to  deny  myself  the  short-lived 
happiness  of  watching  the  graceful  movements  of 
her  mind,  her  feelings  responding  to  the  same 
thoughts  that  gratify  my  own.  Not  long  can  I 
enjoy  the  privilege,  unless  —  Nay,  I  must  not 
look  that  way !  I  am  bewitched  to  believe  that 
now,  Etty  not  being  on  her  guard,  supposing  her 
fate  fixed  beyond  recall,  i   might  win  her  to  like  or 


/^EXS    I'ACATIOX. 


169 


even  to  love  me.  /<?///  men  often  deceive  them- 
selves ;  but  I  am  not  vain.  She  may  yet  be  mine  ! 
I  can  rescue  her  ;  I  will  do  it. 


Off  her  guard,  did  I  say  .^  Therein  lies  the  base- 
ness. S/ie  is  bound ;  shall  I  deliberately  tempt 
her  to  break  her  troth  ?  Is  i.  the  man  who  loves 
her  truth,  her  goodness,  her  strength  of  mind,  who 
would  wish  her  unworthy  of  trust }  Far  be  such 
selfishness  from  the  heart  of  Reginald  Ratcliffe. 

25///.  —  No  German  to-day.  Fishing,  with  Ike 
for  company.     Chilly  business. 

Midnii^ht.  —  And  Etty's  lamp  yet  shines  on  the 
old  tree.  Is  she  puzzling  over  n  labyrinthine  sen- 
tence .**  It  was  more  heroic  than  kind  to  bid  her  not 
wait  for  me.  But  am  I  not  conceited,  s^  desper- 
ately afraid  of  supplanting  a  very  handsome  and 
gifted  man,  having  the  advantage  of  being  a  widow- 
er with  a  cherub  son,  in  whom  I'2tty  has  a  special 
interest }  He  is  a  fool  not  to  take  them  with  him 
to  Europe  ;  left  here,  she  vKiy  change  her  mind  ! 

Oh,  that  hope,  —  it  zvill  intrude  ! 

Did  my  aunt  see  me  color  when  the  mail  brought 


't  ■ 

It. 


l- 
L 

\> 


I 


170 


A'/:X'S   rACATioy. 


I'A^y  a  letter,  with  a  mortar  and  bi^;  S  on  a  wax 
seal.  She  wliispered,  "  You  an'  me  's  seen  enough 
of  the  wooing"  not  to  be  in  no  doubt." 

As  I  handed  it  to  ICtty,  who  held  out  her  hand, 
I  Goidd  not  helj)  saying,  "  A  sentimental  deviee, 
truly!"  and  laughed  mueh  louder  than  was  neces- 
sary. Little  Ugly  banished  all  expression  from 
her  face ;  it  was  like  a  wood-cut  in  the  primer. 
I  almost  wish  the  shrewd  little  witch  would  always 
be  repellent. 

When  did  my  aunt  go  off  to  bed  ?  I  did  not  miss 
her  !  My  favorite  songs,  that  I  never  can  hear 
without  emotion,  and  would  not  let  Flora  s-ing,  — 
ah,  how  I  enjoyed  them  to-night !     Never  again  ! 


T 


P 


)k 


27///. —  lo-morrowis  inanksgivmg.  I'umpRin- 
pies  on  the  tea-table.  Ike  brings  in  a  letter  —  sent 
express  —  and  grins,  as  aunty  says,  *'Is't  from 
him  .^  "  I'^tty  looked  at  the  boy,  and  he  went  off 
with  ears  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  boxed.  She 
broke  the  seal,  and  at  the  first  glance  w^as  con- 
vulsed with  laughter.  Just  as  she  got  her  mirth 
reined  in,  and  was  going  to  read  on,  her  eye  fell  on 
me.     Bowing  her  head  upon  the  edge  of  the  table. 


she  laughed  till  I  was  inclined  to  believe  she  was 
in  hysterics.     She  soon  raised  her  face  with  a  tear 
on  each  cheek  ;  she  looked  at  Aunt  TabiJha.  who 
was  peering  over  her  spectacles,  and  holding  knife 
and  fork  upright,  in  forgetfulness  of  their  use. 
"  When  is  it  to  come  out,  hey  ? " 
Ktty  choked  down  another  burst  of  laughter,  and 
said,  "  To-morrow,  or  next  day  at  farthest." 

"  Nevy,  give  me  holt  o'  yer  arm  ;  1  'U  just  step 
over  and  tell  Salome." 

Ktty  interdicted  this  proceeding,  resuming  her 
most  obstinate  wooden  l(n>k.  Her  letter  weiU  un- 
read into  her  pocket,  while  she  went  on  stirring  her 
tea  and  buttering  her  bit  of  johnny-cake.  I  walked 
off  to  the  pond.  It  is  not  I  that  write  letters  to  be 
passed  by,  thank  my  stars  !  Women  arc  frivolous 
creatures  ! 

2m.  —  r  carried  a  pudding  to  the  Blacks  for  my 
aunt,  r  found  Salome  there  with  pies.  I  saw  and 
smelt  my  turkey  basting  at  the  fire.  To-morrow 
I'll  go  to  Cambridge.  I  sent  word  to  have  a  fire 
in  my  room.     77/.,;./..,.-/:./;/..  /     Glad  it  is  over  ! 

29/'//.— I  found  a  book  in  company  with  an  ink- 


I?  -. 

If ; 


1!'. 


r 


ti  h- 


stand,  lyinf]^  on  tlic  stairs.  Ktty  came  running  to 
tlic  rescue.  "  When  you  leave  your  composition 
books  in  my  path,  I  take  it  for  granted  I  may  read 
them,"  said  I,  holding  it  above  her  reach. 

*'  If  you  read  these,  you  will  pronounce  me  defi- 
cient in  originality,"  said  Ktty.  Oh,  it  was  an  ex- 
tract book  ! 

*'  Whose  vulgar-looking  scrawls  are  these  }  " 

"  Dr.  Saireen  sets  an  example  he  wishes  followed, 
in  mercy  to  eyes." 

"  Black  and  coarse  !  " 

"  I  should  so  like  a  little  oi  your  writing  ;  as  fine 
as  you  choose." 

"  Oh  !  " 

"Very  well,  then  ;  do  not  trouble  yourself.  Give 
me  my  book  ;  it  will  not  repay  you  for  reading.  I 
pick  up  a  thought  T  like,  without  regard  to  literary 
merit.  There  are  more  pebbles  than  gems  in  my 
collection." 

"  Do  not  fatigue  yourself  by  extending  your  hand. 
*  Allow  people  to  discover  yoitr  merit ;  they  ivill  volnc 
it  the  more  for  beiui^-  their  own  discovtry'  (Lord 
Kames.)     Apparently  j't^w  adopt  that  rule." 


"  You  need  explore  no  further.  Mr.  Ratcliffe.     I 
will  thank  you  for  my  chip-basket." 

"  A  date  here  — '  Sent    -'Xth  • '  ti,  >  ,. 

ocju.  ^oin  ,     tnij  very  eveniu'^ 

we  circumambulated  the  pond.     Vou  see  I  have  a 
memory  for  important  events." 

"  r  iu)pe  the  motto  is  to  your  taste.     I  was  nuz- 
zled then."  ■   '     ' 

Si./.'  be  Apollyon  or  Gabriel  thy  son!  knoivctk  not! 
Are  you  still  in  doubt,  Miss  luty.'  " 

"  I   have  found  you   out  pretty  nearly.     I  want 
my  book." 

"  I  fold,"  cried  r.  startin-  and  nervouslv  lau-hin- 
"  J'^^>'-  this  pas.sa.:^e  from  the  Albi.^^enses!  1  conjec- 
ture both  date  and  application." 

Much  e.x-cited,  luty  protested  a^-ainst  my  rum- 
magin^^^  and  drawing  inferences.  "  ^'our  .sagacity 
wdl  only  mislead  you,  however." 

"  I'^Uy.  you  were  reading  that  book  last  Saturday." 
It  was  the  day  she  wept  so  much.  "  <  J\r/iaps  )n- 
dilfarncc  to  those  who  h>ve  us  truly,  fou.llr,  aud 
^oortlulj,  that  iusoheuey  of  the  heart  to^vanls  a  <r,„ 
n-ous  creditor,  is  the  paug  that  trws  its  ehords  'most 


I    i 


1/4 


j^/-:.\"s  i'A(\tT/o.y. 


deeply'  (Maturin.)  Was  it  for  mc  or  for  him  — 
tell  me  —  that  you  shed  those  tears,  soon  dried  and 
forj^otten  ?  I  be,i;  you  to  say,  though  I  have  little 
douljt  on  the  subject." 

"  It  is  an  abstract  sentiment.  I  give  you  no 
leave  to  apply  it,"  said  luty,  coldly. 

"  Do  not  be  offended.     I'.tty,  are  you  engaged  ?  " 

•'  Vou  know,  Mr.  Ratcliffe,  that  is  a  question  I 
do  not  at  present  answer." 

*'  To  tliose  inipcytincutly  curious,"  said  I ;  "  but 
you  must  have  divined  the  motive  which  gives  mc 
a  right  to  ask  and  to  be  answered.  From  this 
moment  there  shall  be  a  clear  understanding  be- 
tween us,  ICtty."  I  would  have  said  "dear  Ktty," 
but  for  the  phantom  of  a  rival  yet  between  mc  and 
hope.     "  Vou  should  be  incapable  of  trifling." 

"You  have  lost  the  right  to  complain  of  trifling," 
said  she;  but  I  jiressed  my  cpiestion. 

With  a  movement  to  break  off  the  conference, 
she  said,  "  I  have  no  entanglement  of  any  kind. 
I  woukl  form  no  attachment  that  miglit  lead  me  to 
quit  Aunt  Tabitha  while  she  lives." 

"  I  understand  your   motive  for  narrowing  the 


I    ' 


1  !   • 


,{   .'  ■.( 


l> 


when  we  were  told  the  compact  that  had  been 
made.  I'>tty  wore  her  most  stoHd  aspect,  and 
I)resently  betook  herself  to  the  kitchen,  where 
Xorah  was  making  a  hospitable  clatter.  Master 
Adolphus  had  remained  in  Boston,  practising  the 
whooinng-cough. 

Tea  being  over,  Flora  ran  to  her  (/cdr  piano, 
which  I  opened  for  her,  the  Doctor  being  occupied 
with  ru])bing  his  liands  over  the  fire.  Tiic  first 
song  that  came  to  hand  was,  *'  Mora,  oh,  forget  me 
not!" 

"This  news  will  be  a  blow  for  Horace!"  I  said. 
Flora  would  not  hear. 

"  I  presume  he  will  ever  retain  his  title  of  Bach- 
elor of  the  P.  &  S." 

vSilence,  and  a  gentle  sigh. 

"  Perhaps  he  never  hixd  a  serious  intention  of 
resigning  it,"  I  said,  looking  for  a  rap  on  the 
knuckles. 

Flora  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  and  whis- 
pered, "  He  would  never  have  taken  me  to  ICurope, 
you  know  !  "  and  phiyed  a  polka  with  such  energy 
that  the  teacups  rattled  and  almost  danced  away 


I 


'111 


an 


Rl'.XS     I'ACATIOX. 


^77 


V 

I 


with  the  spoons.  And  wc  san^  "  Scotlantl's  burn- 
ing," as  loud  as  we  could  shinit,  till  I  thought  the 
**r'ire!  fire!"  would  brinir  in  the  neiiihbors  with 
buckets.  Dr.  Saireen  stood  all  the  while  at  the 
fire,  talking  as  loudly  as  if  aunty  was  deaf. 

But  all  was  still  in  an  instant,  when  Juty,  having 
carried  away  Flora's  bonnet  and  furs,  canie  to  join 
her  iji  a  duet.  No  ear  has  the  Doctor  ;  his  eyes 
only  were  attentive.  His  quick  and  keen  glances 
noted  all  my  movements,  and  scanned  my  face,  as 
a  detective  who  suspected  me  of  having  stolen  a 
missing  treasure  might  do.  I  could  liardly  avoid 
smiling.  Etty  felt  it,  too  ;  she  blushed  whenever 
I  spoke  to  her,  and  sang  so  bashfully  that  I'^lora 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  and  scolded  her. 
On  me  the  Doctor's  surveillance  had  no  "'her 
effect  than  to  render  me  incilicioNsly  devoted.  A 
saucy  whisper  made  Little  Ugly  perfectly  charm- 
ing, blushing  and  laughing  in  imj)atient  confusion, 
and  when  Aunt  Tabitha  called  me  to  attend  her 
to  Salome  IHiddingstone's,  T  flatter  myself  I""tty  was 
heartily  glad  at  my  departure.  Where  is  the  self- 
possession  that  so  long  baflled  and  detied  me .' 


4f 


li 


m 


■r: 


r    ' 


■li 


178 


A' A  A"  5   VACATION. 


2^th.  —  I  rose  early  to  watch  for  Etty,  with  the 
following  curious  document  in  my  pocket,  which, 
though  only  folded  and  directed,  I  could  not  read 
of  course  till  it  was  in  her  hand.  She  unsus- 
piciously allowed  me  to  look  over  her  shoulder  :  — 

Patience  !  liow  often  clouds  abuse 
Weak  mortals'  sight,  and  bound  tiieir  views  ! 
You  rogue,  you  let  us  all  think  't  was  you  ! 
lUit  we  can  spiire  Flory  the  l)est  o'  the  two  ! 
Wearing  the  willow  won't  trouble  your  mind  ; 
As  good  fish  in  tlie  sea  you  will  sartainly  find. 
But  sincerely  I  pray  you  may  never  be  married, 
Till  Miss  Flint  to  her  last  low  home  is  carried. 
Unless,  like  lair  Ruih  with  Naomi  who  tarried, 
You  take  up  with  her  kixsmax.     This  hint  can't  be  parried. 

S A uniK  P u DDi NGSTox i:. 

Upon  this  hint  I  spake.  Of  course  Aunt  Tab- 
itha  could  not  spare  her,  I  acknowledged,  but  the 
dear  old  mother-aunty  would  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  live  in  the  winter  in  J^oston  with  her  best- 
loved  children,  and  Ratborough  woidd  always  be 
the  happiest  summer  resort  for  her  nephew,  lie 
would  buy  the  woods  by  the  pond,  not  to  redeem  the 
property  of  his  ancestors,  but  on  account  of  certain 
di/i^/it/iil  associations. 


I  , 


wmasm 


/;!EA"S   VACATIOX. 


1/9 


Etty  inquired  whether  it  was  my  falling  head- 
foremost into  the  blackberry  bushes  in  pursuit  of 
Captain  Black's  pigeons. 

Oh  no  ;  it  was  there,  in  our  moonlight  walk,  that 
I  fell  in  love,  I  explained.  A  more  serious  disaster, 
Etty  remarked,  unless  my  heart  wounds  were  mere 
scratches,  as  in  my  earlier  experience.  This  saucy 
rejoinder  T  punished  by  putting  my  arm  round  her 
and  making  her  sit  down  with  me  on  the  sofa.  She 
bowed  her  head,  with  her  hand  across  her  mouth, 
and  I  ran  on  about  my  plans  and  prospects,  un- 
checked. "  I  will  return  to  cc^llege  and  study  hard 
for  marks,  and  graduate  with  high  rank,  of  course. 
Then  there  will  be  nothing  to  wait  for  but  to  fit 
up  the  old  Ratcliffc  mansion.  It  will  be  my  joy 
to  gratify  all  your  preferences  in  the  furnishing. 
Aunt  Tabitha's  rooms  shall  have  her  own  things 
in  them,  to  make  her  feel  at  home.  Then  I  shall 
put  my  woodside  flower  where  it  will  be  seen  and 
admired.  Life  ^hall  glide  along  liiuc  a  glorious 
dream,"  etc.  etc. 

Enter  my  aunt.  Her  counlenarLce  iell  as  she 
said,  "  It  is  a  bargain,  I  see  ! " 


.•.V 

w.'  \ 


I'f 

.i"  .- 


3 


•i 

•1 

p 

1 

1 

llm 

ii 

i8o 


A'/LVS   VACATION. 


"  No,  aunly,"  said  laty  ;  and,  releasing  herself, 
she  escaped  from  the  room. 

"She  can't  get  over  it  all  to  once  *t,  the  Doctor 
passing  her  by  for  Flory,  foolish  man  !  Well, 
Flory  '11  come  out  bright  yet.  She  's  been  fond  of 
him  ever  since  she  used  to  set  on  his  knee  and  hold 
the  book,  when  I'ltty  was  saying  her  Jiick-Jiack- 
Jiocks.  That  outlandish  lingo  ain't  o'  much  use, 
to  my  notion,  —  not  for  a  woman.  A  doctor  don't 
want  no  larned  wife  to  darn  his  socks  ;  that 's  so ! " 

"  Aunt,  I  know  Etty  loves  me.  I  have  obtained 
no  promise  as  yet,  to  be  sure.'' 

"  Sakes  alive  !"  cried  my  aunt,  her  eyes  swim- 
ming and  lips  quivering.  '*  I  sha'n't  know  how  to 
put  one  foot  'fore  t'other  with  ICtty  in  Boston! 
But  if  t/iat's  the  trouble,  as  maybe  'tis,  I  won't 
Stan'  in  ycr  way,  my  boy.  'T  an't  long  I  have  to 
live  alone."  I  was  dumb,  and  she  went  slowly 
away. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Christmas,  and  here  I  linger  yet.  Etty  docs  not 
know  me  well,  forsooth  !  She  is  trying  my  temper, 
perhaps.     It  is  giving  way.     Only  when  I  am  with 


her  am  I  patient.  I  'm  an  ill-used  man.  I  '11  b,,lt 
—  give  up  College  — do  some  reckless  thinj;-  — 
marry  somebody  else,  and  leave  Little  U-ly  to  -o 
sin-in-  about  the  red  farmhouse  till  she  is  as  old 
as  Aunt  Tabitha. 

•  •  •  .  . 

,       Jau,   I.  —  "  Mappy  New  Year  !  "  cries  my  aunt, 
whom  I  purposely  avoided  till  she  espied  mi^  first. 
Etty  had  a  penwiper  all  ready  for  me.     I  showtxl 
her  the  little  Hnen  wristband  in  my  pocket-book, 
which  she  vainly  attempted  to  take  away,  and  could 
not  hide  from  me  that  she  was  pleased  that  I  had 
so  long  kept  it.     We  hear  of  the  Sairecns  in  Paris. 
Before  they  sailed,  Adol|)h  had  the  croup,  and  my 
aunt  says  could  not  be  coaxed  out  of  Flora's  arms, 
when  she  "  was  all  tuckered  out."     The  Doctor  is 
no   fool  ;  he   knew  it   was    in   her.   and   so  did  I. 
Madam   Saireen  always  preferred  to  shy  I<:tty  the 
saucy   romp  that  tousled   her   starched   ruffs,  and 
pushed  her  cap  half  off.  kissing  lier  for  doughnuts 
or  candy.     I  wonder  if  Ktty  still  thinks  of  my  only 
flirtation,  abandoned  at  one  reproving  look  from 
her. 


^1 


mi  ■■  I 


ill  :. 


1 

1 

1  ■ 

I- 

1    i: 

]  i    it 

"  Come,  new,  —  read  me  Salome's  last,  —  I  can't 
make  out  her  i)ot-ho()ks  and  trammels." 

I  obeyed,  and  from  the  sorry  rhymes  I  won't  copy 
here,  I  learned  this  fact.  ICtty  is  an  heiress.  That 
is  one  stump  out  of  my  way,  if  pride  has  anything 
to  do  with  my  want  of  favor.  I  had  often  wondered 
how  my  aunt  could  have  laid  uj)  money  enough  to 
live  so  comfortably  and  indulge  Flora's  love  of 
dress,  and  I  said  so. 

"  Etty's  pennies  — she  's  so  open-handed  —  are 
always  mine  more  'n  hern.  I  'm  sick  of  seeing  of 
her  in  dark  gownds  and  linen  collars,  and  she 
making  Flora  buy  what  she  liked." 

"  And  in  my  view  she  looked  the  lady,  and  Flora 
the  country  lass,"  said  I. 

ya/i.  2.  —  Wake  up,  old  monitor  ;  what  is  the 
matter  that  I  do  not  gain  an  inch  in  Etty's  confi- 
dence .'*  —  You  arc  self-engrossed.  —  Nonsense,  I 
love!  —  You  don't  earn  respect  by  your  loafing  here 
with  your  sweet  speeches  and  your  pdits  soius. 
You  should  be  at  your  work  in  earnest. 

"  Aunt,  have  my  things  ready,  will  you,  for  I  am 
going  to  Cambridge  to-morrow." 


/eEX's  r.ic.ir/o.v. 


183 


Etty's  face  lighted  up.     I  will  leave  her.  I  said 
to  myself,  to  make  up  her  mind  at  her  leisure 


she 


is  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,  evidently.     Ami  I  said  ve 
seriously,  "  Whatever  I  have  to  do  shall  be  done  at 
my  best,  to  prepare  for  doing  my  fair  share  of  tl 
world's  work.     \Vh(m  I  graduate,  help  me  to  pi 


i"y 


le 


such  a  career  as  you  would  be  proud  to  share  with 
me.     I  shall  need  a  home  to  rest  in." 


With  a  tear  and  a   smil 


e,  and  a  hand    meet 


incr 


mine,  she  said  I  should  find  her  there  to  cheer  and 
to  help. 


And  advise  >  "  said  I. 


mischievously. 


Etty's  light-hearted   laugh  found 


She  said  she  should 


a    ready  echo. 


no  doubt  try  to  be  useful  in 


that  line,  but  her  wi.sd 


om   must  be  gauged  by  my 


judgment  ;  her  part  was  to  accept  its  decisions. 

I  thought  I  shouKl  be  more  incline.,  to  render 
than  to  e.xact  a  siavish  sub 


mission,  and  I  said  s 


Aunt  Tabitha  comi 


ng  in,  we  kissed  her  and  each 


other,  and  so  at  last  the  bargain  was  sealed. 


Anne  W.  AiinoxT. 


# 


^.^.r^\ 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIBSTIR.N.Y.  14510 

(716)  S73-4S03 


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fy' 


PUELLA  ROMAN  A. 


FUIT  olim  puella  Romana 
Quam  terruit  pipiens  sana  ; 
Ait  parvulus  mus, 
Qui  coluit  rus, 
"  Quam  debilis  gens  est  humana." 


J.  B.  G. 


-vv^' 


I 


it 

!"■ 

!■: 

u 

TO 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

SENT    ON    HIS    SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY,    NOV.    3,     1864. 


p^RYANT  !  now,  while  thy  honored  brow 
^-^     Poets  and  artists  crown  with  bay, 
I,  too,  though  distant  and  alone, 
With  joy  will  keep  the  day. 

Ennobling  thoughts  and  happy  hours 
I  owe  to  thee  come  thronging  back, 

When,  of  the  footsteps  of  the  Past 
I  sweep  across  the  track. 

In  childhood's  deep  and  bitter  grief 
I  watched  thy  sea-bird's  flight  at  even. 

And  took,  with  earnest  sympathy. 
The  lesson  sent  from  Heaven  ; 


I 


V:^ 


And  still,  bedewing  every  line, 

'J'here  shines  with  tender  lustre,  clear, 

That  which  but  adds  a  holy  charm,  — 
My  widowed  mother's  tear. 

How,  day  by  day,  through  circling  years. 
Has  Nature,  hand  in  hand  with  thee, 

Unlocked  her  stores  of  gracious  wealth, 
And  held  them  up  to  me  ! 

The  raging  blasts  of  stormy  March, 
'J'lie  autumn  woods  in  crimson  flame, 

And  breathings  of  the  summer  wind 
Are  vocal  with  thv  name. 

The  blue-bird's  note,  the  squirrel's  chirp. 

Wild  waters  murmuring  along, 
The  varied  music  of  the  woods. 

All  mingle  with  thy  song. 

The  yellow  violet  speaks  of  thee 
While  its  soft  fragrance  rises  up, 

And  holy  Hope  in  silence  fills 
Thy  gentian's  azure  cup. 

And  still,  through  all  thy  gathering  years, 
For  Truth,  for  Right,  ha:,  been  thy  word, 


TO    WILLIAM  CULLIW  BRYAXT. 


I  89 


Nor  ever  yet  from  out  thy  lyre 
Has  one  false  note  been  heard. 

Our  Country,  when  she  stands  once  more 

(Now  bleeding,  pierced,  through  Treason's  wile) 

Erect,  in  strength  and  beauty  clad. 
Shall  greet  thee  with  a  smile; 

For  thou  hast  used  thy  God-given  powers 
To  spread  the  Truth  that  makes  men  free  ; 

And  spoken  from  a  patriot's  heart 
For  Light  and  Liberty. 

Mrs.  Charles  Folsom. 


! 

'  ! 


» 


THE  LESSON  OP  A  SONG. 


I. 

OH,  't  was  a  cruel  wrong, 
And  its  memory  lingered  long 

In  the  heart  of  one  who  would  not  forget ; 

Disdain  and  anger  therein  met. 
Each  succeeding  morrow, 
Freighted  with  joy  or  sorrow, 

Only  heightened  the  bitter  pain. 

Till  hope  of  forgiving  seemed  in  vain. 
An  injury  nourished  in  the  heart 

Stinss  like  a  venomed  arrow's  dart. 


IT. 

'T  was  but  a  simple  song, 

With  a  meaning  sweet  and  strong  ; 


rsstssHBw^^- 


111' 
ii 


192 


THE  LESSON  OF  A   SONG. 


And,  in  truth,  the  shiger  never  knew 

That  the  song  had  done  what  naught  else  could  do ; 

For,  upward  soaring  slowly, 

As  on  an  errand  holy. 
On  its  wings  from  the  hearer's  heart  was  borne 
That  bitter  feeling  of  pride  and  scorn. 

What,  as  music,  can  impart 

Healing  balm  to  a  wounded  heart  ? 

H.  L.  R. 


